


Dalton Abbey

by rachiefish



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Edwardian Period, Klaine, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachiefish/pseuds/rachiefish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by, but not based on, the television show Downton Abbey. It is not necessary to have watched the show in order to read this, and there will be no Downton Abbey spoilers. </p>
<p>It's 1910. Blaine Anderson, son of Lord and Lady Dalton, is bored by his dull life of manners and expectations; he has no interest in following the rules, and certainly none in finding a wife. Enter Kurt Hummel, new to the house staff at Dalton Abbey...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Of a few things, Blaine Anderson was certain. He knew that when his father died, he would inherit the Dalton estate; he knew that he was heir, not only to Dalton but also to a sizeable fortune, and he knew that he was expected to marry a lady of similar fortune and produce a male heir to pass onto after he died.

All of these things, though relevant to Blaine’s life on a daily basis, were never really at the forefront of his mind. No gentleman of twenty-one years of age really thought about these things. He had people to worry about them for him.

No, what really concerned Blaine on a morning as beautiful as this one was how far he could ride his horse and for how long before somebody summoned him back to the house for some unrewarding and menial responsibility that was vital to the keeping of their ‘good family name’.

Blaine had been awake for hours, watching the sun making its slow ascent into the sky. It had just emerged from behind one of the taller hills in the distance, and at last was shining over the grounds of Dalton Abbey with all of its impressive summer power. Blaine smiled at the image painted before him as the light streamed in through the large window of his bedroom. He could, if he listened hard enough, hear the bustle of servants setting up the house for the day and he knew his soon-to-be-ex valet would be along in time to rouse him from the slumber from which he had long since awoken.

Blaine wondered, idly, if the new footman had arrived yet. With the death of poor Mr Stevens, his father’s former valet, the male servants had found themselves shifted somewhat in order to fill the empty position, and Blaine had heard talk of a new footman being hired, who would eventually take over Puckerman’s responsibilities as first footman and Blaine’s personal valet. Blaine hadn’t objected to the change. He tried not to concern himself too much with the house staff; the idea of it made him uneasy. The class divide seemed strange to him - though he’d been brought up simply expecting to be waited on hand and foot - and if he thought about it too much, he felt awkward as he watched them perform tasks he could quite easily do himself. Nevertheless, he was a gentleman. According to his mother, he had more important things to do than bother about the little things. ‘They’re not _slaves_ , dear. We do pay them, you know.’

A knock came at the door and Blaine dragged his eyes from the glorious weather outdoors to greet Puckerman as he entered the room.

“Milord,” the footman addressed, somewhat startled. “You’re already awake.”

Blaine looked down at himself with an expression of mock surprise. “I suppose I am,” he joked. Puckerman smiled politely back at him and walked himself over to the chest of drawers. “How are things downstairs, this morning?”

“Oh, everyone’s on edge of course,” Puckerman replied, settling down an outfit for Blaine’s morning. “The new boy got here last night.”

“Made an impression with the ladies, I expect.”

“Oh, the maids' hearts are a’flutter with excitement, milord,” came Puckerman’s response, a soft touch of irony in his voice. Footmen were, of course, always attractive, and the arrival of a new one was bound to pique the interest of the female servants.

“I’d like to go riding today, Puckerman,” Blaine told the young man. “Perhaps you could search out my riding clothes for me during breakfast?”

Puckerman bowed his head. “Of course, milord,” he said. He was stood by the mirror in the room, his arm outstretched - just slightly - as though to beckon Blaine over but ensuring him that he could take as much time as he required. Blaine stood and walked away from the heat of the sun’s stream, crossing the room to meet Puckerman and accepting his help to shed him from his night clothes and replace them with what he was to wear that morning.

*

“Morning Blaine,” came the familiar, gruff voice of his father from behind his newspaper.

“Father,” Blaine acknowledged. He sat himself down at his place at the table - always the seat across from the window, allowing him to let his mind wander the grounds even though he was trapped inside. “Anything interesting?”

“Hm?” Mr Anderson looked over the top of the paper. “Oh. No, no. Nothing important.”

Blaine nodded, defeated by his failed attempt at inducing his father into conversation, before turning his attention back to the weather outside.   
Blaine’s mother entered the room at length, fashionably late as usual, her hair impeccable, a dress to match the sunny weather.

“Oh, at last,” Mr Anderson said, putting down his paper. Mrs Anderson sat down at the table, a coy smile pulling at her features. “You get later every day.”

“Nonsense,” was all the reply she gave.

“What it is that women do that takes them so long is quite beyond me. Perhaps, Blaine, you’ll be more practical in your choice of bride and find one who doesn’t spend half the morning dilly-dallying in and out of outfits with her lady’s maid.”

“Oh, poppycock. He should choose a lady who takes time to look presentable for every occasion. I should sooner see him late to a dinner party than arriving with a troll.”

“There is quite a difference between looking presentable for a dinner party and trying on every outfit in the closet before breakfast, my dear.”

Through their squabbling, Blaine remained quiet. Perhaps, he thought as he stared out into the gardens, if he never acknowledged their urges for him to find a wife, he’d never have to. There was something in the way Blaine was expected to marry to a woman for her fortune rather than for love that put him off the idea of marriage altogether. His father, if he knew how Blaine detested the idea, would call him a fool of a romantic. The fact remained that Blaine was the only heir to Dalton and he simply couldn’t escape the responsibilities that would be inevitably thrust upon him.

“What are your plans today, Blaine?” his mother asked.

“And goodness, do stop gaping out of the window that way. You look simple-minded,” barked his father.

Blaine snapped his eyes away from the window and, avoiding his father’s gaze, turned to his mother. “I’m thinking of going riding today.”

“Hmm?” she acknowledged as the footmen served breakfast as last. “Well, it’s a lovely day for it. I wonder if you could perhaps call on Mrs Green while you’re out? I’ve been meaning to write her for some time.”

Blaine forced a reluctant smile. “How pleasant,” he replied. “Of course I will, mama.”

*

As it turned out, his visit to Mrs Green turned out to be relatively short and painless (“she was quite rushed off her feet, mother, but she said she’d be delighted to talk to you in person soon”), and he was soon back on his horse, Jackson, riding past the village and into the grounds that surrounded and secluded the Dalton area.

After a few hours - time Blaine had barely noticed the passing of - he returned to the grand house, watching all of its grandeur emerge from atop the hills as he rode toward it. He sprinted the last of the way to the house, urging the horse on with the gentle pressure of his thighs. The horse’s hooves kicked mud up to meet Blaine’s face and when he finally returned to the stables and dismounted he looked quite the picture; mud matted in his wayward locks of dark, curly hair. His eyes sparkled and his face was flush from the exercise. Blaine patted his horse down, noticing the white socks on his four legs were completely covered in mud, barely distinguishable from his dark brown coat.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine muttered to the horse with an apologetic smile. “I guess you’ll be getting a bath today.”

The horse snorted in response, as though hating the idea, and Blaine chuckled as he pulled the horse toward the stables.

“Master Anderson,” nodded the stable master in greeting, as Blaine handed him the reigns to his horse.

“Abrams,” Blaine replied with a smile. “See that he’s gleaming for tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Of course, milord,” the boy replied, pulling Jackson into the stables. Blaine patted the horse's flank and watched him be led away. When he turned to walk back to the house, he caught sight of a boy he wasn’t familiar with, standing just by the servants' door at the back of the house. Blaine offered a smile in his direction and the boy recoiled, somewhat flustered at being caught watching, before re-entering the house without returning the smile.

*

It was as Puckerman was picking out Blaine’s evening clothes and Blaine was washing his face down in a bowl of lukewarm water that he received a knock at his door.

“Come in.”

The door opened, revealing Blaine’s mother, already in her soft blue evening gown. “How was your ride this afternoon? Oh, and don’t forget that Lord McKinley and his wife will be at dinner tonight.”

That was often how she spoke, peppering unpleasant news with a jovial phrase or question, presumably to lessen the blow. Blaine couldn’t refrain from rolling his eyes at the information. William and Theresa Schuester were the Earl and Countess of the McKinley estate. They were the Andersons’ closest (and amongst the richest) neighbours, so to speak. They were also the only two people that Blaine had ever met that he truly disliked, though he’d never say as much. Lady McKinley always left a bad taste in his mouth; he wasn’t sure whether it was her scowling face or her false, saccharine voice that grated on him most.

“Don’t give me that look; you’ve known of this visit for over two weeks, now,” his mother scolded, her eyes momentarily flickering toward Puckerman. She never trusted the servants.

“I’d forgotten.”

Mrs Anderson tutted; whether disbelieving his excuse or simply disapproving of the fact that he had failed to recall such an important event, he couldn’t tell.

“It’s only for one night. They’ll be gone by morning. We have to remain civil to our neighbours, Blaine. And tomorrow night we are expecting to dine with The Viscount Berry of Lima and his daughter. You’ve heard of the young lady, I expect? Miss Rachel Berry. She’s said to be very musically gifted, she’d suit you very nicely-”

“Mother!” Blaine whined. “Is this what you and father have been plotting all day?”

“Oh, Blaine. You read too many novels. We’ve plotted nothing.”

“That would make a change,” he muttered.

Mrs Anderson smiled, clearly having missed his words. “Just make sure you’re on your best behaviour over the coming nights. That’s all your papa and I want. We shouldn’t like you to give the wrong impression.”

She made her way toward the door.

“My ride was great,” he mumbled. “Thanks for asking.”

The door closed behind his mother and Blaine wondered if she’d heard him. He wondered if she cared. A few moments of quiet passed, the only noises Blaine’s soft breathing and Puckerman shuffling about in the corner of the room.

“Thank you, Puckerman,” Blaine said, excusing the footman from the room so that he could relax back in his chair by the window. He watched the sky darken as the sun sank below the other side of the house, casting a dark, grim shadow over the grounds below.


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt Hummel wasn’t sure if it was nerves or excitement that left him with the feeling of butterflies in his stomach, but they refused to abate either way.

It was so late when he arrived at Dalton, he’d hardly had chance to meet any of the house staff - and he certainly hadn't caught sight of any of the illustrious Anderson family to whom the magnificent house belonged. Noah Puckerman, who had insisted Kurt call him Puck (though Kurt got the feeling that this was not a term of endearment) had greeted him gruffly as he had arrived, taking him through the servants’ door and leading him upstairs, to the room Kurt was to share with another footman in the servants’ quarters.

Puck spoke to him as they walked, so quickly that Kurt barely caught a word of it, trailing after him with his single case of luggage, his mind set solely on trying not to trip on one of the many uneven steps they ascended.   
“Don’t go getting above yourself,” were some of the words of wisdom Puck had for him that didn’t get lost in the tapping of shoes against stone flooring. “There’s a pecking order and you might not be at the bottom of it but you’re certainly not at the top, either. There’s Mr. Ryerson the butler, there’s me and then there’s you. Got that?”

Kurt barely uttered a word, choosing instead to simply nod his understanding.

“Your duties will be simple. You show in the guests, you serve at dinners, you stand about and look smart and you do whatever anyone above you tells you to do. You’ll be taking over as Master Anderson’s valet, but beside that you’ll probably never speak to any of the family - don’t say anything to them unless they speak to you first. And be polite. Funnily enough, they like their manners.”

Kurt nodded again, following Puck’s footsteps until eventually he came to an abrupt stop beside a door. It was then that Puck took a moment to look Kurt over, evaluating him.

“You look small for a footman,” he noted, his eyes studying Kurt’s slender frame suspiciously. “Where are you from?”

Kurt’s voice sounded a little hoarse from disuse when he finally spoke. “My father’s a farmer. I helped him out a good deal. I’m strong,” he added, improving his posture somewhat, hoping it would help to make him look bigger built than he was.

Puck made no response. He rapped upon the door by which they had come to a halt as warning to whoever was inside and opened it, motioning for Kurt to go inside, before he walked away.

Kurt walked into the plain room. Everything about it was unremarkable; there was no color - each wall a darkening mix of brown and gray - and the empty single bed to one side of the room was low to the ground and looked old; rusty, even. There was a desk pressed tightly into the corner that contained a few scatterings of unused paper; beside it a rickety looking chair. Still, there was something about the room that had a familiarity to it, akin to his own bedroom at home and he realized he could quickly adjust to the living arrangements here, despite his homesickness.   
The blond boy he was to share his room with stood up to greet him, offering his hand out to shake.

“I’m Sam Evans,” he said, a warm smile tugging at his handsome features.   
“Kurt Hummel,” Kurt replied, taking his hand in his own. “It’s good to meet you.”

*

Kurt barely slept that night, his anticipation to begin work getting the better of him. When morning finally came in the form of the first twinkling of sunrise streaming through the small window of the bedroom Kurt was up before anybody had chance to wake him.

The servants, after they’d prepared the house, would be eating together, Puck informed him, but he was, for the time being, expected to follow in the more senior footman’s footsteps and ‘try not to unsettle anything’.

The two were to prepare the table for breakfast, a task that would, as of tomorrow, take only Kurt to manage. The maids busied themselves with dusting and fire-lighting beside the two of them. Some of the ladies looked Kurt’s way, turning away whenever he caught their eyes and giggling to themselves. Kurt hoped it wasn’t the way he was doing thins that they found amusing. He smiled at them and tried to appear as if he understood the joke.

Puck rolled his eyes.

*

Breakfast certainly wasn’t quite as fascinating an affair as the grandeur he’d seen laid out upstairs, but Kurt hadn’t eaten in far too long, and he was much obliged to be receiving anything at all.

The room in which the servants dined was half the size of the dining room upstairs, though it contained almost four times as many people. Kurt wedged himself in between Sam, who had smiled warmly as he’d entered the room and saved him a seat, and a girl with long golden hair tied back into a bun who’d introduced herself as Brittany and had been unable to tear her eyes away from Kurt’s face since he’d sat down. Opposite him was the housekeeper; a deep blue dress with two contrasting white lines running down each side of it brought out her cold, blue eyes. She looked as though she had it in her nature to quite easily turn from friendly to stern at a moment’s notice, and Kurt found himself a little nervous in her presence.

“Hummel, isn’t it?” she asked by way of introduction.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice getting lost somewhere in his nervousness. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Or Kurt, if that’s preferable...”

“Your skin is porcelain,” she noted. Kurt nodded in acknowledgment of the fact. “Puck mentioned you worked on a farm before you came here? I’m surprised your skin doesn’t have more color.”

Kurt stammered. “I - um - I don’t know why I’m not... I suppose my mother passed me ... my mother had very pale skin, too.”

“Had?”

“My mother passed away,” Kurt replied, hoping not to let any trace of his emotions slip through his expression. Apparently he failed; Sam’s hand found its way to Kurt’s shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. “It was a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry to have mentioned it,” the housekeeper said. “I’m Mrs. Sylvester. Perhaps you’ll permit me to call you Porcelain?”

Kurt couldn’t tell whether or not she was joking, but before he had time to offer his reply the last of the servants sat down at the table and the attention of the housekeeper, as well as everybody else, was drawn toward the clearing of Mr. Ryerson’s throat.

“This is Kurt Hummel,” the butler announced, waving a hand in Kurt’s direction to point him out. “I daresay you’ll all have the opportunity to introduce yourselves accordingly over the coming days.”

A few of the house staff looked over at Kurt to share warm smiles. Puck made no such effort, grabbing a slice of bread from the center of the table before anybody else noticed the cook had even placed them there. Some of the maids looked over at Kurt before turning back to one another and giggling amongst themselves. Eventually, all attention returned to breakfast, and Kurt was relieved not to have every eye around the table on him.

He didn’t speak much that morning; the rest of the staff spent their time talking, with a mix of excited and nervous energy, about some of the forthcoming household events, of which Mr. Ryerson had informed them. Occasionally, Sam asked him questions about the farm he’d come from or gave him tidbits of information about the house and the family, but beside his replies, Kurt didn’t say a great deal.

Puck and Kurt parted ways after breakfast while Puck performed the last of his morning duties as valet to Master Anderson. It was during this time, and while Puck and Sam waited the breakfast table for the family, that Mr. Ryerson showed Kurt around the parts of the house that he would mostly be attending to. After the family had eaten, Puck returned to Master Anderson’s room, while Sam and Kurt cleared the breakfast table.

“So, what made you decide to join service?” Sam asked as the two of them collected up the cutlery that had been used. There was something about Sam’s face that Kurt trusted instinctively; something earnest in the way his kind smile reached his eyes.

“I would have stayed on the farm if it wasn’t for my father,” Kurt replied. Sam cocked his head, inquisitively. “He wanted me to better myself. I suppose farm boy to first footman is a big step up. Besides, I don’t mind so much. The staff all seem nice here.”

Sam nodded. “Most of them are. I suppose you’ve already borne witness to Puck’s sharper side. After that, Mrs Sylvester can be strict if she needs to be; but don’t worry,” he added, as Kurt’s eyes widened, “she never gives you grief without reason.”

Kurt leaned across the table so that he was closer to Sam and he lowered his voice a little. “Between you and me... I think she’s terrifying.”

Sam laughed. “She puts it on. I was scared to death of her when I first arrived,” he joked. “Lopez, now she has a wicked tongue if you get on her bad side. Never say a word against where she came from and _certainly_ never say a word against Lady Dalton, lest you feel the wrath of an incredibly dedicated lady’s maid.”

Kurt smiled, polishing one of the plates and replacing it on the pile to be taken away. “So, what about you? How did you get into service?”

A dish clattered as Sam’s fingers slipped and the two men tensed, peeking down at it to see that no damage had been done. Upon confirmation that the dish was in as good a condition as a few moments before, Sam stuttered, “My - um... my father, he...”

“You don’t have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable,” Kurt said quickly, regretting having asked a question that had clearly caused so much discomfort.

“No, it’s okay. You answered my question.”

“Really, I don’t want you to feel-”

“Kurt. I insist.” A sad smile pulled at his features as he looked at Kurt, who waited with bated breath. “When I was younger my family owned a shop. It was a small business, in the village just a little way down from here. I don’t like to talk about the details...” he trailed off, cleared his throat and spoke again, “our family lost everything. My father could no longer afford to run the business. I joined service to help support my family, my younger siblings.”

“I’m sorry,” Kurt said. “For your family's situation, and for prying.”

Sam shook his head and the warm smile returned to his face with such energy it was like it had never left at all.

“We’re in this together now, Kurt. We’re friends, if you will,” he said, holding out his hand for Kurt to shake. “No secrets.”

Kurt took the boy’s hand in his own. “No secrets,” he promised.

*

It was early afternoon when Kurt stepped out into the small courtyard at the back of the house, feeling the pleasantness of the warm sun beat down on his skin. After being tucked inside for most of the past two days - first on the train and then in the house - it made a refreshing change to be back out in the heat of the day. He made his way to the bags of coal outside, using his strength to pick one up carefully and take it into the house through the servants’ door. He deposited the heavy load into the corridor, making his way back outside for a second bag.

The gentle sound of hooves clip-clopping on cobblestones made Kurt look up. Standing a short distance away from Kurt was a gentleman, riding gear and face smothered in fresh mud. The gentleman appeared to be talking to the horse, patting him affectionately in a way that reminded Kurt of his father and the horse they owned on the farm. He smiled for a fleeting moment as he watched, allowing a feeling of nostalgia and homesickness to wash over him all at once.

The man was handsome; a similar age to himself, Kurt guessed, but with a more confident and self-assured posture. His face was framed by dark locks of curly hair and he was decidedly hatless, a picture that Kurt found refreshingly unusual for a gentleman out horseback riding. His smile seemed genuine as he reached the stable master and spoke something to him that Kurt couldn’t catch, and as he turned to walk in the direction of the house, the gentleman caught sight of him. A gasp ripped through Kurt’s chest as he realized he’d been caught so very obviously staring, mouth agape. He shrank back in through the servants’ door, hurrying to close it behind him, all thought of bringing a second bag of coal with him forgotten in his fluster.

*

The rest of the afternoon went by without event. Kurt set the table for luncheon and saw that the fires lit earlier in the day were still burning. He and Sam served the family at lunch - Kurt noting the absence of the mysterious Master Anderson - then they cleared the table, set it for dinner and were given the task of helping the maids prepare the bedrooms that their visitors, the Lord and Lady McKinley, would be staying in that night.   
The evening’s dinner table was by far the grandest affair of the day. The glass chandelier - operated by electricity, Kurt was amazed to discover - lit up the entire dining room with its bright glow. The family’s best silver was all set out at the table, polished half a dozen times over until it was possible to see one’s own reflection in it. The reception rooms were made ready for the likely gathering of the family and their guests after dinner; a large fire prepared in order to stave off the chill of the night air. The cook, Mrs Beiste, had been busy for the entire afternoon, preparing a large, impressive meal for the evening and the smell of it filled the kitchen. Kurt had never seen anything quite so exquisite or perfectly-orchestrated as the entire evening and he made a mental note to write his father to tell him the details as soon as he had a moment to himself.

A chauffeur-driven car arrived outside the house at six o’clock and Ryerson escorted the guests into the reception room where they were met by the family. Kurt and Sam took their luggage upstairs while Puck showed the guest chauffeur down to the kitchen for his own dinner.

Mrs Beiste, finishing the final touches to the appetizer, asked Brittany - once, twice, shouted at her a third time - to bring her the seasoning she’d missed. The house staff were so rushed off their feet with trying to ensure that everything went smoothly for the family that Kurt almost laughed at the mayhem unfolding in front of him. It was only when a dish was thrust into his arms and he was waved frantically upstairs by Ryerson that he composed himself and joined in the mad rush to serve the family as promptly as possible.

Kurt noticed him in an instant; the moment he entered the room. The same gentleman he’d seen out on his horse that afternoon, the same dark, curly hair - this time much neater than before. Kurt made the connection almost immediately; sitting next to Lord Dalton who marked the head of the table, the gentleman could be nobody other than Master Anderson. Kurt - still reeling from having been caught staring at the gentleman earlier in the day - was, for a moment, torn between staying or running from the room as quickly as he could. Sense prevailed, keeping him in the dining room and following Sam and Puck’s lead in serving the guests. He caught Master Anderson’s eye as he served Lord Dalton and quickly looked away, fighting against the flush he felt rising in his cheeks. He might have been imagining it, but he almost thought he heard a soft chuckle hidden underneath the gentleman’s clearing of his throat, and Kurt kept his eyes on the table, pretending to admire the patterns the wood made, until he was able to move away from that end of the room.

The evening appeared to stretch out infinitely, and Kurt’s attention was largely consumed by Master Anderson. He noticed that, comparative to everybody else around the table, he contributed very little to the conversation. He spoke only when he was addressed directly and seemed so wholly distracted by the grounds outside the window that Kurt had, himself, followed his wandering gaze to see if there was anything in particular out there commanding his attention.

“Still no engagement to be married, Master Anderson?” Lady McKinley asked in a voice so high-pitched that grated terribly on Kurt; he had grown to detest her over the short amount of time she’d been present in the household. “What a pity.”

“I’m quite sure I still have enough time to find a wife,” Master Anderson replied, and Kurt could almost hear the stiffness in his voice. “I was under the impression a man could choose to marry whenever he wanted.”

“Oh, of course,” Lady McKinley replied. “But there are plenty of other rich, handsome men vying for the girls' affections beside yourself. All of the sensible girls might marry before you ever throw them a second glance.”   
When the family was finished at dinner, Master Anderson excused himself, saying that he felt unwell. Puck followed him to his room while Sam, Kurt and Ryerson remained until the rest of the family dispersed for bed; Kurt showing Lord McKinley to his chamber before returning to the room he and Sam shared.

“Long day,” Kurt commented as he entered the room.

“They seem that way to begin with. You get used to them.”

Kurt relieved himself of his bow-tie, stretching his neck.

“You don’t mind if I just sit up a little while, do you?” Kurt asked, positioning a candle on the desk. “I should write my father.”

“Not at all,” Sam replied, settling himself down into bed and blowing out the candle nearest to him. “Don’t stay awake for too long,” he advised. “It’ll be morning before you know it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Kurt was surprised, as he entered the room, to find Master Anderson already out of bed, sitting in a plush chair by the large window. Despite the knock he’d given at the door and the creak the door made as it opened, the gentleman hadn’t heard him enter, or else he was simply too absorbed by the picture-perfect weather outside to notice. Kurt cleared his throat - quietly, then a little louder - to catch his attention.  
“I’m sorry,” Master Anderson replied, turning in his seat to look at Kurt. A smile of recognition lit up his face; he stood up and neared Kurt, whose cheeks began to feel warm. “You’re the new footman,” the gentleman stated. “The one I caught staring at me yesterday afternoon.”

Kurt’s eyes widened. “No, Master Anderson, I never intended-”

“I jest,” the gentleman said, holding up his hand to stop Kurt’s flow of flustered apologies. “I’m sure you were merely wondering who I was, as I was about you.”

“Yes, milord.”

“I should introduce myself then. My name is Blaine Anderson. May I know yours?”

Kurt blinked a few times disbelievingly, unable to comprehend the informality of the man’s greeting. Master Anderson was smiling at him; a real, friendly smile that reached his eyes. He stammered when he finally spoke. “I’m Hummel. My - my name is Kurt Hummel.”

“Hummel,” the man repeated. “I should tell you: I depend on my valet more than I depend on anybody else. I should hardly know how to dress myself appropriately without one.”

Kurt thought he detected a joke in his words. He smiled, nervously, hoping it was the right thing to do. Blaine - Master Anderson - was close enough to Kurt for him to notice that he was a good few inches shorter than himself, though his physique was more than enough to counteract the fact; Kurt couldn’t help but notice the curve in Blaine’s arms that hinted at the muscles beneath. Master Anderson’s arms, Kurt reminded himself. It wouldn’t do him any good to start thinking of the man by his first name, not if he was to spend so much time with him. He knew if he allowed himself to that one day he’d end up slipping and calling him ‘Blaine’ aloud.

Kurt exhaled a breath of air he didn’t realize he’d even been holding on to and he smiled as he picked up the courage to reply, “perhaps, then, it’s fortunate that I’m to be your valet. I’m excellent with clothes, milord.”

Master Anderson seemed to visibly relax as Kurt appeared more at ease, picking out clothes for the gentleman from the closet and bringing them back to him to assist him in dressing.

“My mother asked a favor of you, Hummel,” Master Anderson said as Kurt aided him in pulling his jacket over his shoulders. Kurt raised his eyebrows, but did not speak. “You saw how well I was dressed last night, I expect?”

“Yes, milord,” Kurt replied.

“She has asked me to look twice as well dressed tonight for our guests.”

Kurt smiled. “That won’t be a problem, milord.”

*

The Viscount Berry and his daughter arrived in much the same fashion as the previous day's guests. They had come by train and Lord Dalton’s own chauffeur, Finn Hudson, retrieved them from the train station. When they arrived it was Kurt’s responsibility to move their luggage - enough for at least a fortnight’s stay - to their rooms.

Miss Berry, Kurt noted, was beautiful. She was accompanied by her lady’s maid, and as she stepped out of the car the maid quickly arranged her dress to make sure it hadn’t crumpled during her journey. The light blue material she wore contrasted with her long, dark brown locks and a smile illuminated her face. Kurt couldn’t help feeling that for all Master Anderson’s objections the night before about finding a wife at such a young age, perhaps the lady would steal his heart after all. Hudson had certainly taken a shine to her.

“She’s beautiful though, isn’t she?” he’d said who knew how many times. “I wonder what she made of my driving.”

“I’m sure she ‘made of your driving’ what any young lady of esteem would ‘make of your driving’: that it’s terrible and that she will never marry a chauffeur as long as she lives,” Puck had responded after Finn’s umpteenth proclamation during lunch, eliciting laughter from a few members of the house staff and a scowl from Finn.

The table had been set for dinner as it had been the day before, though with a little more refinement and flair given the level of their guests' social standing, and the reception room had a fire lit long before anyone would set foot in there. Kurt went to Blaine’s dressing room in the early hours of the evening and picked clothes out for the young man. After spending an entire day torn between thinking of him as ‘Master Anderson’ or as ‘Blaine’, Kurt had begrudgingly allowed himself the use of the man’s Christian name, so long as he never let himself utter it out loud.

“Have you seen Miss Berry yet, Hummel?” Blaine asked as Kurt affixed his bow-tie.

“I have milord.”

“Tell me,” he prompted, “what do you make of her?”

Kurt’s eyes widened, wondering what the right thing to say was in such a situation. He wondered if Blaine was looking for an honest answer, if he wanted to hear that Miss Berry was incredibly handsome, that she looked every bit the perfect match for the young man. He wondered if Blaine wanted to hear an answer sympathetic to his own beliefs that a young man needn’t be looking for a wife so young, that it was wrong for his parents to bring the young lady here in the hope that they would eventually become married.

Kurt settled for a standard, “She’s beautiful, milord.”

Blaine chuckled. “Yes, I rather suspect that she is.” There was an underlying tone in his voice that Kurt couldn’t make out. He chose not to speak as he helped to pull the jacket over Blaine’s shoulders and brush it down until he looked a picture of elegance.

* * *

Blaine descended the staircase more slowly than usual, fussing with his cufflinks and regarding his reflection in every mirror he passed. He still reached the dining room all too soon.

“Master Anderson,” Ryerson greeted, leading him into the dining room. The Viscount and Miss Berry had not yet arrived, and the room was occupied only by Blaine’s father and the footmen Evans and Hummel.

In the quiet, Blaine allowed himself the time for his eyes to wander over the fields outside the window, ignoring the sound of fidgeting as his father looked at his watch, huffed a little and looked at it again. Perpetually on time, all the time, every time; Blaine almost found humor in the fact that his father had married a woman who took no such notice of the passing of every hour. Blaine was almost certain that his parent’s marriage was the reason he had no desire to rush into any such ceremony of doom himself.

As if on cue, Ryerson introduced the entrance of Blaine’s mother and, following her, Lord Lima and the lady Blaine had no intention of marrying, Miss Rachel Berry.

She was, as Kurt had assured him, beautiful. Her smile as she entered the room lit up her features, her brown eyes seemed to twinkle in the light of the chandelier. Her posture was infallible: head high, back straight. A picture of confidence, and she was clearly aware of how her corseted dress accentuated her feminine shape. Everything about the young lady - from beauty to fortune, from fortune to title - was precisely what his parents had in mind for Blaine; no less than anything this lady represented would do. And Blaine felt nothing.

The family and their guests seated themselves and the footmen began serving food almost immediately. Blaine was glad for that, at least; it provided less time for the inevitable awkward chit-chat that was bound to follow.

And so it began.

“I trust your journey here today was agreeable, Lord Lima,” was, as usual, the topic of conversation Blaine’s father decided to begin with.

“Quite so, Lord Dalton. I find the train to be such an exquisite advancement in technology, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, indeed,” Mr Anderson replied in a voice only Blaine could decipher as being ironic; it was the same tone in which his father most often spoke to him. Blaine wondered if his father had ever found anything exquisite. “And Miss Berry, you found your journey to be a pleasant one, too, I hope?”

“I thank you. Yes, I did,” she replied, smiling toward Blaine’s father before turning toward Lady Dalton. “And I must express my thanks again for your invitation. Your home is lovely.”

Blaine averted his gaze to the window as he allowed his mother’s gushing to wash over him. Something about Miss Berry being more than welcome for the invitation, that she was delighted to have some female company for a short while and that, yes, the house was lovely, wasn’t it?

At length, Blaine heard the blissful ringing of quiet in his ears, the sound of spoons clinking against dishes taking over for a few moments. The silence wasn’t awkward - everybody around the table was far too well brought up to allow for awkwardness - but there was something lingering in the air, something that was supposed to happen that hadn’t, yet. It took another few, silent moments for the realization to hit Blaine. They were waiting for his contribution to the conversation.

“Lord Lima...” Blaine began. The room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief that order had been restored, and the Viscount looked up from his soup in response. “How long do you intend to stay... at Dalton?”

Blaine stomach twisted in knots. That wasn’t the most ideal way to begin a conversation.

“Well... we intend to trespass on your home no longer than we’re welcome,” he replied.

“I only meant-” Blaine stammered. “I only meant that Miss Berry might be... in want of some company. If you’re here for a long while,” he turned to the young lady in question. “I suspect that you don’t have many friends over here?”

“I don’t,” she agreed.

“Well, then I should be glad to keep you entertained. If you’ll allow me to, of course.”

Miss Berry’s smile suggested that she thought Blaine a simpleton, but she nodded politely anyway. “That would be lovely,” she replied, as the plates from their appetizer were taken away by the footmen.

The quiet returned as the main course was served, but the air was no longer uncomfortable now that Blaine had broken his silence. Everybody was free to discuss every boring topic of conversation that crossed their mind to anybody they wanted now that the niceties of society had been observed. It was almost like clockwork. Mundane. Boring. Predictable. Blaine caught sight of Hummel as he was serving and couldn’t help but wonder what he would have to say on any given topic of conversation. If he’d have anything to say at all.

“I was wondering if I might make use of your library while I’m here,” Miss Berry asked, a few topics of conversation later. She raised the question to Lord Dalton, but it was the Lady of the house who replied.

“Certainly,” she said, looking toward Blaine as she continued, “Master Anderson is quite the expert on books. I’m sure he’ll be happy to show you around.”

“You’re well read, Master Anderson?” Miss Berry asked, interest piqued.

“One has little else to do with one’s time. Yes,” he replied. “I’m well read.”

“Little else to do? A young man like yourself?” she was making fun of him, he could tell. Her smile was playful, jovial. “There’s a whole society of people to meet and exciting places to visit ‘out there’. Or didn’t you know?”

He returned her smile, laughed politely and responded in a way that he knew his mother would wholeheartedly approve of, “Perhaps you would be so kind as to show me.”

*

As was customary after such a dinner, the family and their guests retired to the luxury and grandeur of the reception room where the conversation, as well as the flow of alcohol, could be continued. Blaine noted the segregation of the sexes, as he usually did, watching as the group split off into two; the men remarking on politics while the women gossiped. Blaine, feeling uncomfortably like he fit with neither group, deferred his attention to the two men. Nodding and shaking his head in the appropriate places, he sipped from his glass often to avoid having to make any real contribution to the conversation.

“Your father tells us you’re an accomplished singer,” Blaine’s mother noted a little later on in the evening when the talking had quietened down and the group had found itself somehow united as one once again.

“I am,” Miss Berry replied, without false modesty or hesitation. Blaine was almost impressed; ladies were usually a lot less forthcoming than herself, preferring to be complimented and coerced into admitting their talents.

“Master Anderson is fond of music himself,” Lady Dalton mentioned with a smile in the direction of Miss Berry’s father.

“Well then, perhaps you could entertain us,” the Viscount said to his daughter. “If she could have the use of your pianoforte, of course,” he directed to the Andersons.

“Oh that would be lovely,” Lady Dalton replied. She shot a glance in Blaine’s direction, her sharp eyes telling him exactly what he was expected to do.

“You might allow me to accompany you, Miss Berry?” he asked. Her eyes locked with his for a moment too long before he pulled his gaze away. Miss Berry nodded her assent and the two of them made their way over to the piano where Miss Berry sat and thumbed through pages of sheet music until she found one that appealed to her. She showed Blaine the piece to enlighten him of her choice, before her delicate fingers touched down on the first few notes of the song.

* * *

It was Miss Berry’s voice that opened the song, filling the room with pitch-perfect soprano notes that blended well with the beautifully played piano. Kurt was pleasantly surprised by her voice; she could sing - very well, in fact. Her steady fingers flowed across the piano keys in an effortless way; she barely glanced at the sheet music that was propped open on the stand before her, playing by ear or by memory in a way that reminded Kurt of his mother’s own impressive musical talent that he’d long since had the opportunity to enjoy.

The look on Blaine’s face seemed to confirm that he, too, was startled by her. His eyes were glued to Miss Berry as she sang, and he almost missed his cue, stuttering a little on his first line as though he were unsure as to whether it was worth his joining in or not. When he settled into the song a few bars later, Kurt had to fight to keep his expression passive and neutral, as was expected of a footman.

Blaine’s voice matched that of the young lady’s in a perfect harmony that was simultaneously soothing and commanding of attention. Miss Berry, similarly to Blaine, seemed surprised by Blaine’s talent, as if she’d anticipated him to be a dreadful accompaniment - or, at best, mediocre. She smiled as they continued, the two of them becoming lost in the song that had the whole room in baffled silence. Eventually, the two singers caught one another’s eyes, and Kurt could feel the tension building in the room, the chemistry between the two of them.

It was ridiculous, he knew. Ridiculous and improper and so out of any realm of possibility that Kurt cursed himself vehemently for even having the thought, but he felt a stab of envy in the pit of his stomach, directed wholly at Miss Berry. Kurt hadn’t sung with anybody since his mother had died; he’d seldom had the opportunity to, but even when he had, he’d never wanted to. But Blaine’s voice, his charisma - even the smile affixed to his face as he performed - all of it made Kurt ache to sing with him.

But of course, it would never, _could never_ , happen. Kurt was a servant. Blaine the son of an Earl. They had their places and that fact would never change. ‘Don’t go getting above yourself’ hadn’t some of Puck’s words been to him just two days ago? That wasn’t even to mention the fact that the very thought of two men was an unspoken abomination amongst society. The idea of it was not so much a recognition that it happened, but rather something pushed so far into the background that it simply didn’t exist in people’s minds: couldn’t be comprehended. It happened, of course it did, but it was something that those involved would gladly take to their grave. Kurt and Blaine singing together? It was an ache in Kurt’s chest that would never be dulled, never be satisfied.

The song ended too soon, with everyone applauding and swooning. Miss Berry’s smile was tremendous, as though her life depended on the approval of her audience and their enthusiasm as they clapped. Blaine smiled courteously in Miss Berry’s direction, acknowledging her performance, before returning to his seat.

*

The house staff, a large proportion of whom had taken every opportunity they could to spy on the visitors, had little else to talk about as they met for supper before bed. Some of the maids swooned over how beautiful Miss Berry’s dress had been, how well she would look on Master Anderson’s arm. Miss Lopez, the lady’s maid, spent most of her time objecting to the young girls’ excitement, pondering aloud why Lady Dalton’s dresses were never the center of discussion when she spent such a long time helping to compose said outfits. Finn, who Kurt had discovered was somewhat simple and seemed to have no sense of propriety, had declared himself in love so many times that the rest of the staff had taken to simply ignoring him (though Puck had promptly come to Blaine’s defense the moment Finn had begun declaring that Master Anderson didn’t deserve her). It surprised Kurt that the chauffeur continued to work for the family when he said things that would otherwise be so heavily frowned upon, but Sam had explained to him that he was good at his job and always meant well, and so long as he kept himself quiet in front of the family and their guests, he tended to get away with it.

One of the maids had joked to Kurt that he must wish he was of a higher rank so that he, himself, could court the young lady. Kurt had smiled, nodding in a non-committal way, before noting that Master Anderson would be very lucky to wed her. He didn’t add that he rather thought it the other way around; that Miss Berry would be very lucky to marry Blaine, and that Kurt wished he had a high enough rank merely to be able to sing with the man. In the silence of his bedroom, in the closing hours of the evening, Kurt drifted off to sleep to the memory of Blaine singing... and he wished.


	4. Chapter 4

“Good morning, Master Anderson,” Kurt trilled as he entered Blaine’s room the following day.

“Hummel,” Blaine replied, his head lifting up from the top of a hefty book that he looked to be almost half of the way through. “Is it morning already?”

Kurt took in the scene before him. Sat in his usual chair by the window, Blaine’s eyes were red and puffy. He had a candle, still lit - though burnt down almost to its end - beside him on the table in just the right position to allow light to flicker onto the page of his book.

“Have you been awake all night?” Kurt asked, immediately rebuking himself for being so forthright with his question. Blaine either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He simply nodded, yawned, stretched and smiled somewhat guiltily toward Kurt. “Perhaps we should attempt to conceal that fact,” Kurt replied, pulling out a tie that he knew would bring out the brown in Blaine’s eyes rather than the red surrounding them.

“I would appreciate that,” was all Blaine could muster in reply, quickly licking the tips of his fingers to snuff out the candle before dragging himself from his chair and over to Kurt.

* * *

In truth, Blaine couldn’t put his finger on quite what had unsettled him. When he’d retired to his bed the previous night, rather than falling gratefully into a slumber as he often did after an evening of entertaining guests, his eyes simply refused to close, stuck to the ceiling upon which he could make out faces in every etch and scratch in the paint, or rather: a face, singular. That of Miss Berry. What it was about her face in particular that refused to leave his mind, he couldn’t tell. There was nothing spectacular about it. There was no resounding feeling of pleasure at her appearance, no spark or delight he could feel whenever she spoke, or smiled, or even sang - though her voice was excellent, that much was true. Perhaps his mother was right; that he did read too many novels, that he was preparing himself for some distinct feeling of having been ‘altered’ somehow, a friction or heat, or something, when really there would be no such thing, that he would simply know, without any involvement of real emotion, that she was ‘the one’ when the time came. Maybe that’s why his parents chastised him for wanting to be in love with the person he married. Perhaps there was no such thing.

There was, however, a distinct uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, a feeling of nausea so chokingly unpleasant that Blaine was fairly certain whatever it was he was feeling toward Miss Berry was not love or anything remotely close to it. Every time he saw her smile somewhere in the scratches on the ceiling, he felt his stomach tie into knots. The lady, her hair, her smile were by no means unattractive, yet the very thought of eventually marrying her, spending every day for the rest of his life with her made him uneasy, nervous. And he knew that she deserved far better than him for a husband.

And so, after some two hours rolling restlessly back and forth, eyes unwilling to stay shut and figures of Miss Berry refusing to disappear, Blaine had got up out of bed, lit a candle and sat reading Richardson's ‘Clarissa’, right through from the first chapter until the moment when Hummel had entered the room, several hundred pages later.

*

“Master Anderson,” a voice greeted him as he descended the stairs.

Blaine hesitated, taking in the sight of the girl before him. She was smiling brightly, a colorful summer dress shining in the sunlight that streamed through the grand window. A few locks of her hair fell loose around her shoulder - by design, Blaine didn’t doubt, so that attention was drawn to the soft, pale skin of her long neck.

“Miss Berry,” he replied with a smile. “I trust you slept well?”

“Very well, thank you,” she said. She seemed to look over him before she continued. “Yourself?”

“Delightful,” he said, fighting the temptation to scratch at his itching eyes. He caught sight of his mother, standing someway off in another room behind Miss Berry, looking pointedly at the two of them. Miss Berry didn’t notice her.

“Perhaps,” Blaine began, taking his eyes from his mother and looking at Miss Berry as earnestly as he could, “after breakfast you might accompany me on a walk?”

The girl smiled. “Of course.”

Blaine’s mother walked out of sight.

*

The two of them found themselves in silence when they eventually stepped out into the gardens and looked out onto the stretch of open fields and cobblestone pavements that led toward the village. If he could, Blaine would remain silent and focus on the sounds around him; birds chirping, leaves rustling in the gentle breeze, squirrels scurrying through the trees. All of nature in its eternal freedom, none of it ever feeling the constraint of human society. It was his constant awareness of the lady beside him, her lace-gloved fingers rolling the handle of her parasol between them, that instilled him with a sense of obligation to talk. This, he supposed, was the idea of their walking together.

“So is your mother not to join us, Miss Berry?” he ventured.

“My mother passed away when I was very young.”

Of course, Blaine thought, turning his face away as subtly as he could to breathe out a curse not loud enough for Miss Berry to hear.

_Congratulations on asking the worst question you possibly could - and as your first one!_ Why did nobody ever tell him these things?

“My—my apologies,” he stuttered. “I’m - I had no idea...”

“It’s okay,” she said, and he could see that she was almost laughing at his discomfort. “It was too long ago; I was hardily old enough to know her. I’ve no memory of her.”

“Still,” Blaine said. “I couldn’t have picked a more embarrassing question.”

“Sometimes they’re the best ones to begin a conversation,” she replied. Blaine looked at her then, surprised. She smiled back, her eyes glinting playfully, before she turned to look back out at the path they were following. “So, do you walk often?”

“I ride,” he replied. “I usually bring my horse out every day.”

“Last night I noticed you staring out at the gardens a lot.”

Blaine winced. “Am I so obvious? You weren’t supposed to notice that.”   
“I’m observant.”

“I meant no disrespect, of course. I was still focused on your company, I merely-”

“You merely like the outdoors. It’s not a crime, Master Anderson.”

He laughed, eyes darting down to stare at the cobblestones moving beneath their feet as he allowed his embarrassment to subside. She seemed not to notice.

“What is it you like about being out here?” she ventured, curiously.

Blaine had to think for a moment before he responded. “I like the freedom. Sometimes I find society... how can I put it?” he mused. “Oppressive.”

She smiled, but a sad look passed across her eyes. “Don’t we all?”

Blaine raised his eyebrows, startled by her response. His insides ached to call the girl up on it, ask her what she meant, what she was alluding to, why she - of all people - found the society in which they lived as oppressive as he did. He opened his mouth, closed it again and looked over at Miss Berry. Her eyes were trained on the route ahead, no trace of the former sadness left in them, and it was the first time he’d had the opportunity to wonder if Miss Berry’s predicament was just the same as his; if she were here against her will, being thrust towards the most eligible bachelor her father could find in the hopes that Blaine would marry her.

It was a while before either of them spoke - Blaine couldn’t be sure how long exactly - but he eventually cleared his throat, forced himself to break the silence.

“Do you enjoy riding?” he asked, a continuation of their previous conversation.

“I’ve a horse,” she replied sheepishly, looking at Blaine. The two of them caught one another’s eyes for a moment and looked away from each other again, giggling.

“Should I take that as a ‘no’?”

“I don’t dislike it,” she said. “I just- for me it’s just too - dirty?” Blaine nodded, pretended he understood the concern. He didn’t. Getting dirty was part of the fun of horseback riding. For him, at least. Miss Berry continued, “My horse is beautiful. I couldn’t bear to see her looking dirty. I shall have to keep to my music.”

“Well, in that I have to agree with you. Your voice is outstanding.”

She grinned. “Thank you. You were surprisingly good yourself. For a gentleman.”

“As I mentioned before, I have little else to do with my time.”

She shook her head. “I still can’t believe you with that one.”

Blaine stifled a yawn as the two of them continued walking; the fresh air was having an opposite effect to what he’d hoped, and the warm, humid air was coaxing him back into drowsiness.

“Am I boring you with my company, Master Anderson?” Miss Berry asked.

Through his sleepy haze, Blaine couldn’t tell if her tone was jovial or if she was, in fact, horribly offended. His bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop another yawn from escaping. He swallowed hard, blinked a few times, his eyes becoming more blurry every time he reopened them.

“You are observant indeed, aren’t you?” he joked. “I’m sorry, I-” he looked at the young lady, who returned his glance with concern etched on her face. “I didn’t quite tell you the truth earlier.”

“Oh?”

“When you inquired as to whether I slept well last night, I said that I had,” Blaine said. There was a short silence while Miss Berry continued to look at Blaine, puzzled, as though she were expecting there to be more to the story somehow. “I hadn’t,” he finished.

“I see,” she said, nodding her understanding. They continued to walk, heading out of the grounds belonging to Dalton Abbey and down a slight decline that led to the village. “Well, we’ve gotten off then to a rather bad start, don’t you think, Master Anderson?” Blaine didn’t know where her train of thought was leading, so he made no reply. “Perhaps, if we’re to be friends, we should tell one another the truth?” she smiled playfully.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he replied with a relieved smile. “Just never tell my mother any of our secrets.”

She laughed, a full and hearty outburst that brightened every feature on her face and Blaine would have thought it the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen if he was at all attracted to her.

But he wasn’t.

* * *

Kurt had settled into routine fairly quickly in the three weeks that he’d spent at Dalton. He and Sam had become good friends, and Kurt liked to think of some of the other staff as friends, too. Finn, although Kurt could only stand so much of his simple chit-chat at any given time, had certainly declared himself Kurt’s friend. He and Brittany had crossed paths so many times each morning in the setting up of the house that the two of them had, after about a week, simply started to work their way through the rooms together, enabling them the opportunity for conversation. Miss Lopez and Kurt had taken to friendly banter over whether Lady Dalton or Blaine were better dressed on any given occasion. And it turned out that Mrs Sylvester hadn’t been joking when she’d asked to call Kurt ‘Porcelain’; it had begun just occasionally once or twice a day, until eventually it was simply how she addressed him, so long as no member of the family were around.

Kurt tended to send a letter home to his father twice a week, and always received one back just a few days later. They pulled at his heartstrings, making him homesick every time he received a reply - not necessarily because of the content of the letter, but because of the promptness of its return. Kurt could tell that his father missed him. He was alone in their house with nothing but memories and it pained Kurt to think of him like that.

On the subject of Blaine, Kurt had, over the weeks, managed to push all thought of wanting to sing with him from his thoughts. He’d tried, even, to forget altogether the memory of his performance with Miss Berry, but he’d failed spectacularly at that; Blaine’s voice was still hauntingly clear in his mind. Kurt felt he had to be commended for his progress over the weeks; he was at a point where he could focus on his responsibilities everyday without thinking about it; he could see Blaine every morning, every evening and around the house at any given time of day and his mind barely hinted at the memory; he’d very much separated ‘Master Anderson’ from ‘Blaine’.

But whenever Kurt was back in his room of an evening, whenever he wrote his father, whenever he lay back in his bed, closed his eyes and began to drift off to sleep, Blaine was there. Blaine was singing. The voice refused to leave him.

“What are you writing so sneakily over there?” Kurt asked Sam one evening, sitting up in his bed to focus his attention on the other footman, the book in his hands propped open.

Sam was sat hunched over the desk, continually tearing up pages of unsatisfactory writing until they were in so many pieces on the floor that the text on them was indecipherable.

“Nothing,” came Sam’s mumbled reply as he spoke into his arm. He huffed, jotted down a sentence, scribbled it out, tore it up and eventually contradicted, “I’m writing a letter to my family.”

“Are you always so meticulous in writing to your family?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s the fifth page in a row I’ve seen you tear up,” Kurt explained.

Sam made no reply, so Kurt went back to his book. It was a short while later that Sam’s voice penetrated the silence.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Kurt looked up, surprised by the outburst. Sam was looking directly at him, another sheet crumpled up in his hand.

“No,” was all Kurt could think of to respond. It was the truth; Kurt had never fallen in love with anybody - there had seldom been the opportunity to meet anybody at the farm. Sam looked deflated. He turned back to the desk and returned to his writing, but no sooner had Kurt dropped his head back to his book when Sam let out a loud, exasperated sigh.

“Is that what this is about?” Kurt asked. He felt easy in asking the question; their no-secrets policy had been sincere enough, and Kurt already felt close enough to Sam to treat him as a brother.

“I - well - it isn’t - yes,” Sam stuttered.

“You’re in love with a girl,” Kurt stated, more than questions. Sam answered him anyway.

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

Sam’s dopey smile said everything. He was smitten. “She lives in my village, the one I grew up in. Her father runs a postal office.”

“So she’s distinctly middle class, then,” Kurt said.

“Yes.”

“And you’re... not middle class. Anymore.”

“No.”

“I see your dilemma,” Kurt concluded.

“Quite,” Sam agreed. Kurt didn’t even point out the fact that footmen were generally expected to be single, unmarried. Sam didn’t need another issue to think about.

“Does she love you?”

Sam smiled. “Yes. She loves me.”

It was all the two said on the subject that night: Sam returned to his letter writing and Kurt returned to his reading and eventually the two retired to their beds and prepared themselves for another day.

*

Miss Berry and her father had been at Dalton for around the same time as Kurt had. It was the last day of her third week in the house, and, to Kurt, Miss Berry’s lady’s maid and her father’s valet were as much a part of Dalton’s house staff as the others. There was talk among the servants that Miss Berry would be leaving soon, and Kurt couldn’t help feeling a little sad at the idea of Miss Motta and Mr Karofsky leaving.

Kurt usually visited Blaine three times per day under Lady Dalton’s strict instruction for him to look presentable for every occasion - and every one of Blaine’s daily habits, from dinner to visiting the library, counted as an ‘occasion’. To Kurt, it seemed as though Blaine spent his every waking moment with Miss Berry and Blaine had certainly never given any sign that he was unhappy or underwhelmed by his experience with the young lady - indeed, why should he?

In fact, it didn’t surprise Kurt at all to find that Blaine had grown to enjoy the lady’s company. Kurt had listened to many a tale over the past few weeks about his and Miss Berry’s walks, his and Miss Berry’s horse rides, he and Miss Berry sharing favorite books. Three weeks was enough time to form an attachment, enough time to ask a lady’s father permission and enough time to propose the idea of marriage, and Kurt fully expected to hear of the announcement within just a few days.

It was Kurt’s twenty-second day at Dalton when he arose to his first dull morning; no sun shone through the wide windows of the house, only a few speckles of rain clung to each glass pane as the grey skyline frowned over the grounds of Dalton.

“I’ll be sad when she leaves,” Brittany commented as she set up the first in the dining room. She was staring wistfully into nothingness, not focused entirely on the task she had at hand, and Kurt hoped that she didn’t burn the house down as he continued to lay the table.

“Miss Motta?” Kurt asked, thinking of how the lady’s maid’s smile always cheered up the room no matter how gloomy an atmosphere had befallen it.

“No, silly,” Brittany replied with a sigh. “Miss Berry.”

Oh, Kurt thought. Perhaps that had been obvious. The maids had all been so taken by the young lady, willing her to be part of the family from the moment she had arrived, that of course it made sense for them to be saddened by her departure.

“I’m certain she’ll not be away for long,” Kurt assured the parlor maid.

She gasped. “Do you know something?”

“It would not be for me to say, even if I did,” he teased, laying down the final place setting and making his way toward the door of the room.

“You’re too cruel,” was all he heard Brittany respond as he made his way out of the door and along the corridor.

*

“Hummel.”

“Master Anderson.”

Kurt came into Blaine’s room to find him, as he always did, already awake.

“Dreary weather this morning,” Blaine commented as he stood up from his chair and walked over to Kurt who carefully picked out yet another striking outfit for the young man.

“Quite, milord.”

“I shall probably have to stay indoors all day.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I will if my mother has anything to do with it,” Blaine joked, and Kurt felt a smile pull at his features. “I shouldn’t think even you could keep me from looking decent for our guests if I went out in this weather. Short of galloping about after me with an umbrella.”

“No, milord,” Kurt replied, holding back a chuckle.

Blaine laughed, and then, as though he’d forgotten who he was speaking to, said, “you’re so formal.”

Kurt looked up from the two ties he held in his hand and shifted uncomfortably as he comprehended Blaine’s face. He made a stuttered, confused reply.

“Y-yes? Milord...”

“Sorry,” Blaine suddenly said, shaking his head as though to re-align his thoughts. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ve made you uncomfortable... only, I-” he paused, laughed again - more to himself than with Kurt - and finally spoke. “Everybody speaks to me like that. It’s expected, of course, with the whole social order of things. Sometimes it just feels... really formal.”

Kurt made no reply. He smiled meekly at Blaine, before shifting his attention back to the two ties he was torn between. Eventually he chose the one in his right hand, noticing that its honey-color brought out the shine in Blaine’s brown eyes.

“You’re a good valet,” Blaine said at length, as Kurt helped him into a jacket, readjusted the way it sat on his shoulders and then brushed it down. Kurt’s lips curled, ever so slightly, into a smile. “Never leave, will you?”

“I’ll try, milord.”


	5. Chapter 5

It was a gloomy morning that bid farewell to Lord Lima and Miss Berry. Grey clouds overhead threatened rain and the ground still glistened with remnants of rainwater from the previous night, but Lady Dalton’s insistence that the two should stay until the weather brightened fell on deaf ears.

“Nonsense,” the Viscount responded whenever she raised the concern. “You’ve been far too kind with your hospitality already, and we don’t care to outstay our welcome. The rain shall hold off, I’m certain.”

Hummel and Evans had loaded the car with luggage shortly after breakfast and with the car parked outside of Dalton’s front porch, the two families said their goodbyes.

“I hope to see you again soon, Miss Berry,” Lady Dalton said, the two ladies air-kissing one another affectionately as the gentlemen waited - some with little patience - for their exchange to come to a close.

“The feeling is quite mutual,” was the young girl’s reply. “It was such a pleasure to make your acquaintance - and that of your family.” Miss Berry smiled pointedly then at Blaine. She moved toward the car, happily taking the hand Blaine offered in assistance.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, also,” Blaine replied with a smile of his own, before letting go of the lady’s hand and stepping away from the vehicle to allow room for Lord Lima to move closer. Lima shook hands with Lord Dalton - the former expressing what a fine stay he’d had, the latter stating that he hoped the pleasure would be often repeated - before climbing inside the car with all the long-established grace of a noble. Hudson closed the door, before starting up the engine and pulling away from the sweeping lawns of the grand estate. Blaine watched as the wheels trundled slow and steady down the cobbled path, on and on for what seemed like an eternity, before it eventually pulled its way out of sight and he allowed himself the tiniest breath of relief.

“What a treat,” Lady Dalton said when the three of them eventually retired to the house, sitting by the fire of the drawing room and allowing the chill of the day to be chased away from them all.

“Quite a treat, darling,” Lord Dalton replied, the usual irony profound in his voice.

“Such a lovely young lady,” she continued, taking no notice of Blaine’s father and turning her attention to Blaine himself. “Did you not think so, Blaine?”

“She was... lovely,” he said, recycling his mother’s use of the word.

“It would be splendid to see her more often. She’s quite an accomplished young woman; her piano playing, the books she’s read...”

Blaine let his mother dotingly read off a list of Miss Berry’s many hard-earned accomplishments as he stopped listening completely. His mind was reeling; murmurs of the last three weeks replaying themselves over and over. He imagined that somewhere amidst trying to appease his mother and not being rude to Miss Berry, he’d probably given the impression that he’d easily be led into matrimony.

The memory of Miss Berry formed in his mind; the young lady in the summer dress; the loose locks of her hair; the dazzling smile; all of it - at least in the beginning of their encounter - designed to have him fall for her.

And yet, the two of them had become friends - and that made it even harder for Blaine to allow himself to marry her.

His mother continued to talk, her gaze flitting between the eyes of her husband and those of her son, clearly hoping to find some kind of life behind them, some kind of response that was more than a nod or a grunt, and Blaine, for a moment, thought how sad it must be for his mother to wait in a forever of silence, hoping for a visit from guests merely for someone to talk to. He and his father were, perhaps, too alike in that respect; neither of them could invest in this conversation, his father shifting restlessly in his chair as his mother continued to talk. He pictured himself in twenty years time, shackled to Miss Berry by wedding vows that had meant nothing to him at the time and meant less with each passing year, listening to her talk endlessly about their daughter’s handsome suitor or some other meaningless topic. He imagined her heart sinking a little more each time her ignored her: every time he went out riding instead of visiting some other rich and foolish family of esteem; any time he said ‘not now, sweetheart’, ‘another time, darling’, and even every time he refused to make love with her, his own wife. Every image rang out in his head, too loud, too vivid, too painfully real to ignore, and the voice in his head became more insistent with each one:

I can't marry her. I can’t marry Miss Berry. I cannot marry Miss Berry.

“I can’t marry her-”

The sentence was almost inaudible, but Lady Dalton’s talking ceased immediately. The grandfather clock ticked, loud and clear, in the otherwise silent room, seconds passing menacingly. Blaine hadn’t even meant to say the words out loud, but it was too late to retract them; even Blaine’s father’s attention had been captured.

“Gentlemen, would you excuse us?” Lady Dalton managed to choke out to the servants. Ryerson, Hummel and Evans exited the room silently, the door closing behind them with a soft click that sounded, to Blaine, like a gunshot. Another few seconds passed before his mother’s voice cut sharply through the stark silence.

“This is not up for discussion, Blaine Anderson.”

Blaine’s pulse pumped loud in his ears as blood ran to his neck, his face, his head. Anger encapsulated him.

“You’re damn right it isn’t!” The words burst from him before he could stop them, and all at once he found himself on his feet. His parents stared at him; his father passive yet interest piqued, his mother scowling. “I will not discuss with you every minute detail of my refusal to marry Miss Berry, but know that it is a refusal nonetheless.”

“I see absolutely no reason for you not to marry her,” Blaine’s mother said, standing to better meet her son’s eyes and make her point. “She’s young, she’s handsome, she has a fortune to inherit, her father’s title to pass on. She wouldn’t be too much of a handful to manage, and there’s not a person who could deny that the two of you look well together. I certainly didn’t find you altogether miserable in her company, which I must say greatly surprised me.”

“Mother, all of this has very little to do with marriage-”

“It has everything to do with it,” she snapped. “People below us, people below you, they can marry for love. They can marry for whatever they like. You, Master Anderson, you marry for fortune, you marry for title and you marry a woman you can stand to be around for the rest of your life.”

“Oh, how very old fashioned-”

“Not old-fashioned, Blaine. Realistic! Sooner or later you’ll tear that wretched head of yours from out of the clouds and realize that you have to marry sooner or later and good God! Why not marry somebody you can be friends with?”

“Perhaps some of us would prefer not to spend every day for the rest of our lives miserable!”

It was a rare moment when Blaine had the opportunity to express his anger and in the absence of any servants and overcome by his own fury, he kicked out at the table in front of him. A vase that sat upon it wobbled and fell, tumbling down onto the floor with a deafeningly loud crash. Blaine looked from the shattered glass that settled on the floor to his mother’s stern gaze, before turning on his heel and storming toward the door. Upon wrenching it open, he discovered Hummel, poised to knock in the very next moment. He started at Blaine's sudden appearance.

“I- I heard a crash, milord,” he stuttered.

Blaine was silent for a moment, trying to compose himself, recollect his thoughts. Hummel looked earnestly at him, his blue eyes seeking some kind of instruction.

“Hummel-” Blaine said. “Get somebody else to clean it. I need my riding clothes.”

*

Hummel had him dressed in his riding clothes within ten minutes - the two of them didn’t share their usual chit-chat - and Blaine had mounted his horse and was out of the grounds in another ten. The rain that had threatened as Miss Berry was leaving began to tumble down from the sky in earnest, and Blaine reveled in it, letting the bitterly cold drops slap against his face almost painfully. He urged the horse on faster with his whip, the rainwater seeping through his clothes and into his skin, the cold air making it almost unbearable to continue.

When Blaine was a child, he’d been given the impression that men were essentially independent creatures; that when he reached adulthood, he’d no longer have to bend to the will of his parents. Women did what their families told them to, unable to refuse lest they be cut off from all reputable society. Men, he’d always had the impression, were not quite so restricted. They followed conventions, of course, and married within the right circle of people. But as far as choosing whom in that circle to marry, deciding when to be married - he’d always assumed he’d get away with being able to make those decisions himself. Apparently being the only son of an Earl meant that one’s freedom became somewhat restricted.

Hooves pounded the grass, the deep thudding noise resounding in Blaine’s head and he focused solely upon the steady rhythm for a time, allowing it to fill his ears, erase his thoughts and become louder and more important than the sound of his own quickened breathing, the feeling of his heart beating faster from the exercise. Mud flecked up from the ground, covering his wet riding clothes and every uncovered inch of his body, and with a final nudge, her urged the horse on faster still, galloping through the empty stretch of field after field.

Blaine returned after almost two hours, soaked through and as muddy as if he’d forgotten the horse altogether and had merely rolled his way through Dalton’s gardens.

Kurt met him at the entrance of the house, his face altogether more calm than it had been when he left, and he even greeted Kurt with a smile as Kurt draped a thick blanket around him.

“You must be dreadfully cold, milord,” Kurt said, watching Blaine shiver from underneath the wool.

“I can hardly tell, Hummel,” he replied, following the footman into the house and up to his dressing room to change.

* * *

It was rare that Kurt ever found himself alone in a room. The house was always so alive: servants bustling from one room to the next; voices; bells; the sound of shoes tapping their way across parquet floors. The family would often occupy several rooms at once; Lord Dalton working in the library of a morning and his study most afternoons, Lady Dalton most often spending time in the drawing room engaged in various tasks or otherwise enjoying the light that came through the grand window throughout the day. Blaine, of course, sprang from room to room, garden to garden, from the house to the village and beyond on a regular basis. Bored and restless, always.

The family had, however, disappeared for the day, Lord and Lady Dalton having been invited to luncheon with one of His Lordship’s old friends. Blaine had asked Kurt to prepare him for riding an hour previously, and Kurt knew he wouldn’t be home for at least another hour.

Many of the staff had been advised by Ryerson to finish their tasks as quickly as possible and take the afternoon off. Kurt was not among this group of people.

He found himself alone in the drawing room, polishing dust from various valuable objects and taking great care not to drop any of them, when his eyes roamed involuntarily to the piano there. The same piano by which Miss Berry and Blaine had been accompanied in their duet five weeks or so ago.

Kurt was not a disobedient person - indeed he usually followed rules to the letter, never allowing himself the opportunity to break them. It was an unfamiliar feeling, the pang of temptation that ran through him as he stared at the instrument. It was grander - much grander than the one his mother had used to play, but he knew that if he drew closer to it and observed the thing that it would look the same, function the same, sound the same.

And there was nobody around to see him.

He made his way over to the instrument, his delicate white fingers eventually touching the cold, black surface of the pianoforte. The eighty-eight shiny black and white keys stared up at him, longing to be caressed, and for Kurt the temptation was too much. His index finger reached and pressed down on a key, letting the sound reverberate around the large room, finding no audience.

Before Kurt knew it, he was sitting upon the stool in front of the piano, both of his hands poised above the keys.

And he began to play.

He was surprised by how easily it came back to him, how his fingers knew the movements, knew which were the right keys before his ears even caught up and realized what melody he was playing. His mother’s favorite.

“Fur Elise.”

The music ceased at once. Kurt jumped up from the stool as though the very surface of it had become red-hot and it fell backwards, landing on the floor with an unpleasantly loud clatter. Kurt hurried to right it again, before fixing his anxious, wide eyes earnestly on Blaine, standing in the doorway of the room.

“Master Anderson! I-I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have - I should never have presumed to-”

“Hummel-” Blaine raised a hand to stop the disjointed, mumbled apologies that tumbled from Kurt’s mouth. “Relax.”

Kurt frowned, perplexed by the instruction. “Relax, milord?”

Blaine chuckled, and Kurt felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Yes. Relax.”

Kurt’s breathing slowed, cheeks still scarlet, and his eyes fell from Blaine’s hazel irises to focus on the floor. “It wasn’t my instrument to play. I’m sorry, milord.”

“And yet you played it with such spirit that I cannot find it in myself to chastise you for playing it at all,” Blaine replied. His tone of voice was low and soft, a stark contrast to the fallen stool and Kurt’s frantic apologies a few moments before, and Kurt thought he could sense a lightheartedness there that made him dare to look up into the face of the older boy, finding a smile on his lips as he did so. “Where did you learn to play that way?”

Kurt cleared his throat, regaining an ounce of confidence but still feeling a gentle heat in his cheeks. “My mother, milord. She had a beautiful voice and could play the piano far, far better than I ever could.”

“I couldn’t imagine it to be possible for anybody to be better than yourself,” Blaine was quick to respond.

“How flatteringly untrue, milord,” Kurt responded, unable to keep the smile from his face and the giddiness out of his voice. “Miss Berry, for a start, can play with much better technique than I am able.”

Blaine chuckled as he made his was over from the doorway to the piano and sat on the stool in front of it, flexing his fingers - a little dirty from the horse ride - over the keys. “Miss Berry played with excellent technique, to be sure,” he said, the piano twinkling quietly as his fingers touched down lightly on the higher notes. “But she does not play with as much heart as you. She _hears_ the music, but she does not _feel_ it.”

Blaine’s fingers worked their way up and down the keys melodically and Kurt found it difficult to tear his eyes away from their movement.

“With all due respect, milord, I disagree,” Kurt dared to say as he pulled his eyes away from Blaine’s hands working the keyboard and looked at his face. Blaine looked up at him quizzically, but did not stop playing. “Miss Berry didn’t so much as glance at her sheet music when she was playing - and still she played beautifully and without error.”

Blaine considered this for a moment and turned back to look at his fingers. The flow of notes stopped for a moment as he rearranged their position. “There is quite a difference between playing from memory and playing from the heart, Hummel. And I suspect Miss Berry practices the former, while you encompass the latter.”

Kurt felt his face flush at the compliment, thankful that Blaine was concentrating on his hands and that nobody else was around to see him. Kurt watched Blaine’s fingers as they began to dance lightly across the keys, playing what he recognized to be a more modern song than his own performance had been: ‘Meet Me Tonight In Dreamland’.

Blaine seemed almost oblivious to his surroundings as he played, clearly finding solace in the music. Kurt surveyed him as he listened. His clothes were dirty from his ride, his fingertips mucky, too, contrasting starkly with the clean, white keys of the instrument beneath them. His jaw was set firmly, a day’s stubble just setting itself upon the jaw line. Blaine’s eyes followed his fingers as they paced delicately over the keys, a look of concentration under his long, black eyelashes that Kurt could just notice contrasting with his skin. That was it, for Kurt; that was the breath-taking moment that he realized how handsome - how truly, unbelievably handsome - he found the Earl’s son.

At length, Blaine began to sing along with the music, lyrics that Kurt barely knew but to a melody that he thought he had definitely heard somewhere before. “Meet me tonight in dreamland, under the silvery moon...”

Kurt, caught up in the slow and melodic beauty of the song, found himself humming along as Blaine sang. The sound of his own voice caught him off-guard, but Blaine raised no objection to its presence, so he simply continued.

“Meet me tonight in dreamland, where love’s sweet roses bloom. Come with the love-light gleaming in your dear eyes so true; Meet me in dreamland, sweet dreamy dreamland; there let my dreams come true...”

The song came to a close too soon, the last note fading into silence too quickly and Kurt was left with a thought that almost threatened to overwhelm him; he’d actually performed with Blaine.

Kurt applauded softly; the noise seemed to startle Blaine out of some kind of daydream. He took Kurt’s appearance in for a moment, before smiling.

“Thank you,” he said. “For joining in. One doesn’t often have the opportunity of giving impromptu performances for the house staff, lesser still the chance to perform with them,” he joked.

Kurt smiled politely, unable to come up with a response. “Shall we change you into clean clothes, milord?” he eventually asked.

“Hm?” Blaine raised his eyebrows, before looking down at his clothes, noticing the mud as if for the first time. “Of course, yes. That would probably be appropriate.” He rose from the stool and walked slowly with Kurt toward the door of the drawing room.

“You weren’t gone for long today, milord,” Kurt remarked to fill the silence.   
“No,” Blaine agreed.

“I wonder if there was something unsatisfactory about your ride?”

The two made their way across the hallway to the grand staircase. “Oh no,” Blaine replied, a smile playing on his lips. “No, nothing unsatisfactory. Sometimes it’s just nice to spend time by myself in the house,” he said by way of explanation. Kurt didn’t press the subject further, although he suspected what he meant was that he wanted the opportunity to roam the house while his parents weren’t around.

“Milord, with regard to my... My lapse in propriety...” Kurt trailed off, finding himself quite unable to ask anything of his superior.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Blaine replied, and Kurt tried not to sigh his relief too heavily.

The men eventually reached the staircase, Blaine slightly ahead of Kurt. They ascended slowly, in a peaceful and comfortable silence. Blaine turned his head back to Kurt as they were halfway up, as though ensuring that Kurt was still close behind him, and smiled. Kurt returned the friendly gesture, and as Blaine turned back to look in the direction he was heading, Kurt felt his cheeks grow warm once again.

* * *

Blaine changed at last into cleaner clothes, Hummel left the room in order to aid the other staff in preparing for dinner. Blaine watched him go, his spritely valet who was somehow intimately friendly as well as always professional. He smiled, imagining him as a child, accompanying his mother in singing; an idealistic image of family love that Blaine ached to think didn’t exist any more, Kurt’s mother being gone and his father so far away.

Blaine sat in his chair by the window and looked out onto the grounds across which he’d ridden just a short while before. His fingers danced on the table before him, and it took him a few minutes to realize that his fingers were miming the pattern of keys that played ‘Fur Elise’. His ears rang with the musical piece that Hummel had played, his thoughts filled with images of his soft, white fingers dancing along the keys.

It was entirely true, what he’d said. Hummel had played the song with more emotion, more intensity than he had heard Miss Berry play with over the previous few weeks. It had been the main reason he had waited so long to interrupt him, unable even to bear the idea of not listening to it that little while longer.

It was beginning to dawn on Blaine that in the month he’d known Hummel, the two of them were already much closer than he and Puckerman had ever been. His former valet had been good at his job, that much was true; certainly Blaine’s father had had nothing to say about Puckerman now that he was working as his valet - and his silence on any given subject was usually indication enough that there was nothing wrong with it, since a complaint was the only thing worth stating aloud.

But with Puckerman, Blaine had always felt a distance between them; a relationship that never crossed - or even came near to crossing - the line of formality. Hummel, clearly, was different. The two shared a friendship, almost. No, not almost. They did. What they had was a friendship. He and Hummel - he and Kurt - were friends.

Blaine smiled to himself, eyes watching the sky change color as the sun slowly descended. The low clouds cast an unusual shadow over the gardens and the muddiness the rain had left behind over the previous days seemed all but disappeared, replaced instead by neatly trimmed, perfectly still hedges and flowers glowing in the sunset, all of it a display of showiness that made the gardens of Dalton appear far more beautiful than they really were.

Kurt’s voice echoed in his head, the sweet, delicate sound of music that Blaine imagined could lull any restless baby to sleep or draw a dying man back from his eternal slumber. Blaine listened to it, thought of it in comparison with Miss Berry’s and then dismissed the idea, the sound of Kurt’s voice far too pleasant to be put against that of the young lady’s.

It wasn’t until Kurt knocked on his door and announced to him that it was time to come down to dinner that Blaine realized quite how long it was he’d been thinking on the topic. He thanked Kurt for informing him and walked immediately down to the dining room, where his parents were returned from their luncheon with friends. It didn’t matter how he dressed the situation up, or how he expressed the idea to himself in his mind - he knew that he had to admit to himself that he enjoyed Kurt’s company far more than he enjoyed that of Miss Berry’s. A glance at his silent parents confirmed to him that they probably wouldn’t be best pleased to find that out.


	6. Chapter 6

_Dear Kurt,_

_I am so pleased to hear that you have settled in well. The staff sound friendly, and I’m glad of that; you were never very good with strangers as a child, so it’s nice that you’ve been able to make friends._

_I’m getting along fine. You don’t need to ask every time, Kurt! I’m an old man, I can take care of myself. The farm’s as good as ever it was. And your mangy little dog, Bark, is just fine, too. He’s finally stopped whining for your company at night and settled down. I don’t know why we ever let you keep that dog, your mother and me. Still, he’s an improvement on when you found him; less fleas, less bony. And sometimes when I look at him, I can swear he has just your eyes. It’s surprisingly nice to have him for company. But enough about us. Please stop worrying so much._

_Your roommate, Sam, sounds like a nice fellow. That’s good. I imagined you having to share with somebody just awful. It happens, you know. Not everybody is as nice as you are. Perhaps you could tell me more about the house staff. They seem a surprisingly nice bunch. Miss Lopez, the typical lady’s maid, so it seems. And Hudson... oh dear! At least he sounds like you’d be able to count on him if you needed to, even if he’s not ‘all there’, as it were (perhaps not with secrets, mind). He must’ve liked that Miss Berry, though. Love’ll do crazy things to a man, Kurt. You might not have realized it yet, but mark my words: when it does, you’ll certainly know about it. You’ll cross boundaries to be with them. Why, your mother mightn’t have even noticed a sad old man like me if I hadn’t been twice as crazy as I usually am._

_Speaking of which, the young Miss Pierce you spoke of, the girl you prepare rooms with of a morning. She sounds like a lovely young girl. I say, perhaps the two of you might find yourselves suited to one another?_

_I wish you all the best, Kurt. I miss you._

_Father._

*

“You won’t laugh, will you, Kurt?” 

“Why on Earth would I laugh, Sam?” 

The blond man shrugged, sheepishly, avoiding Kurt’s eyes as he replied, “because I get... nervous.” 

Kurt smiled. “Come on,” he said. “Man up.” 

Sam scowled, squaring his shoulders and turning his head away from Kurt to hide a faint blush. 

It was a sunny day, and Sam had been fortunate enough to have been asked to run their errands in the village on that day, as opposed to the day before as they usually did. The floor still glistened with the previous day’s rain, and despite the chill wind, both Sam and Kurt reveled in the warm sunshine that beat down upon their decidedly coatless backs. The sound of children playing games a short way in the distance carried over on the breeze, and the general atmosphere of the village was quiet and peaceful, save for the occasional motorcar driving by.

From the way Sam had eagerly volunteered himself for the village errands, Kurt suspected that it was one of his favorite things to do. Kurt - with a rare afternoon off after Blaine had been dressed appropriately and shipped off with his parents for dinner with the awful Lord and Lady McKinley - had offered to come and help his roommate perform his tasks. It afforded him the opportunity to see the village properly for the first time since arriving at Dalton, as well as shamelessly spy on Sam’s lady friend. Sam, whose agreement of ‘no secrets’ was severely tested when Kurt had suggested the idea, eventually came around and agreed to let him come; although the closer they got to the post office where her father worked, the more nervous Sam became. 

“Wipe your palms,” Kurt teased as the two of them approached the building. “No lady likes to hold a man’s hand if he’s sweating.” 

“I somehow doubt I’ll get close enough to hold her hand,” Sam hissed in reply, wiping his palms down his trouser legs anyway and pushing through the door and into the office. 

They were met with a musty smell - a mix of rust and old paper, Kurt guessed - and the room was dark; only one window permitted light into the office foyer, which illuminated the dust motes that scurried across the room, disturbed at their entrance. The jingle of a little bell above the door alerted the office to their arrival, and something stirred in a room behind the counter, heading toward the two of them. Sam visibly tensed, his fingers gripping the delicate envelopes in his hand a little tighter than he ought to have. He breathed a soft sigh when a man greeted the two of them with a gentle smile, and Kurt almost chuckled. His father had been right - love made a man behave very strangely.

“Mr Wood,” Sam said, politely.

“Sam,” the man replied affectionately. Kurt raised his eyebrows at the familiar greeting, wondering whether Mr Wood knew Sam as a footman for the Dalton family who stopped by at the post office occasionally, or as the man he’d been before, when he’d worked in the village. 

“How’s your father?” Mr Wood asked, a note of genuine concern in his voice, confirming that Mr Wood knew Sam as the latter.

“He’s well, sir. Thank you,” Sam replied. “And your own family?” 

As if on cue, another figure stirred in the background and a young woman came to the fore, dressed in pink lace. Dark blonde ringlets surrounded her delicate features, and she smiled as soon as her eyes passed over Sam’s face. 

“Mr Evans,” she greeted. 

“Miss Wood,” Sam replied with a smile. 

“Quite well, as you can see,” Mr Wood said in answer to Sam’s previous question. An age seemed to pass in silence before Mr Wood turned to face the girl. “Louisa, could you take this around the back?” Louisa did not respond, her eyes still trained on Sam, eyes seemingly sparkling. “Louisa.” 

“Yes, father,” Louisa said, jumping to attention and taking the package from him. She turned, walking back the way she had come, turning one last time to smile again at Sam before she disappeared into the back of the office. 

Sam made his payment and walked back out into the bright daylight of the village. They kept a steady pace and walked in silence for a time, before at length, Kurt broke it with a single sentence that lit up Sam’s features. 

“She really loves you.”

*

“So how did the two of you meet?” Kurt asked as the two of them headed back toward Dalton Abbey, each clutching a brown paper bag of sundries. 

Sam smiled to himself, eyes lighting up a little, as though he were remembering the moment. “She used to come into the shop, running errands for her father. Just once a week she came, always on a Monday. And she always had that smile on her face. I remember thinking ‘if I could marry a girl with a smile half as bright as that, I’d be happy’. 

“I found out that she worked at the post office and I started going there, too, just to see her. Every time my family had a letter to send, I’d volunteer to go to the office for them.” 

“Her father seems like a nice man,” Kurt told him. 

“He is. He still asks after my family, despite our... _situation_.”

“Maybe,” Kurt said jovially, nudging Sam’s arm. “Maybe he’ll permit the two of you to marry.”

Sam scoffed. “I couldn’t afford to keep her. He’d never allow it.” 

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Then by all means, continue sending the girl love letters. I’m sure she’ll thank you for them when she’s an old maid because she didn’t accept any of her other suitors while she was waiting for you.” Sam looked a little hurt, and Kurt smiled to show that he meant his remark to be playful. “I think you should at least ask her father. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Their slow and lazy walk lead them back to an equally sleepy house. The usual bustle of the kitchen was nowhere to be seen, Mrs Beiste concentrating only on preparing dinner for the staff. Kurt and Sam took their places in the staff dining room, where several other maids and servants were congregated already in the midst of their usual idle gossip. Lopez sat at the end of the table, a noticeable distance from everybody else, a far-off look in her eyes as though her mind were elsewhere. Even the women’s talk of dresses failed to coax her from her daydream, and Kurt wondered briefly if something had happened to her family back at home.

An hour later, the rest of the house staff joined them for dinner, taking their usual places. The atmosphere of the house was more relaxed than usual, what with the family being absent and no rush to attend to their needs. Even the conversation was louder than usual, the staff knowing as they did that they didn't need to be listening for the ringing of service bells. More gossip was traded, as well as the latest trends in fashion. 

“I heard talk of a _ball_ , though,” one of the maids exclaimed excitedly. Kurt’s interest piqued, he listened into the conversation.

“Where did you hear that?” another asked. 

“Lord and Lady Dalton were talking of it a few days ago.” 

“A _real_ ball?” a third, younger maid chimed in. 

“Ladies in gowns and gentlemen in suits.” 

Another maid chimed in with a scoff. “Obviously Master Anderson was unsatisfied with Miss Berry, so Lady Dalton’s thinking up new ways to parade other young ladies before him.” 

Lopez’s sharp eyes raised toward the maid who was talking. 

“I suspect she’s worried that if he doesn’t marry and produce a male heir she’ll lose her blessed fortune and be reduced to the likes of us.” 

“Don’t talk about Lady Dalton that way,” Lopez snapped, staring at the maid with eyes like daggers. 

“Lopez, what’s wrong? Worried if Lady Dalton loses her place you won’t see a thread of silk again as long as you live? Worried you won’t be able to play dress up?”

Lopez’s knife crashed onto the table with a clatter. All other conversation around the room ceased entirely, every eye trained upon the lady’s maid. 

“I suggest you should all treat your Lady with some respect. She’s trying her damned hardest to keep the Dalton estate, and keep it within the Anderson family. You all have food, a roof over your head and a bed to sleep in at night, though few of you deserve any such treatment.” She threw a look of contempt at the maids who had been talking previously, before continuing, “and if this house is ever inherited by some other family member, heaven knows what will become of any of you. Perhaps you ought to think about that before you say a bad word against Lady Dalton.”

Lopez stood up and walked quickly from the room, her dinner barely touched and the door slamming shut behind her.

The room’s usually cheery atmosphere fizzled into an uncomfortable silence in the wake of the lady’s maid’s outburst. Kurt and Sam exchanged nervous glances, not wanting to be the first to break the tension. Everybody, it seemed, had the same concern, and the room remained quiet, save for the ticking of the clock and the clink of cutlery against plates, until eventually dinner was over and the servants dispersed.

“What was that about?” Kurt asked Sam as they headed back toward the servant’s quarters upstairs. Sam shrugged, indicating that he had no idea, and a voice chimed in from behind them. 

“Her mother died two years ago tomorrow,” Brittany explained. “She gets... touchy about it.” 

Kurt’s mouth formed to make the shape of an ‘O’, understanding at once and hoping the subject would be dropped to save him feeling any more guilty, but Brittany continued. 

“Too bad the rumors didn’t die with her.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Sam said, eyebrows raised. 

“Lopez’s mother claimed to be the widowed wife of a soldier, a man who died in the First Matabele War. From what I’ve heard, that’s a fabrication. Or at least a gross exaggeration of the truth.” 

Kurt wanted to bit his tongue and walk away from the conversation, but his curiosity got the better of. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Where did you hear that?”

Brittany shrugged. “It’s common knowledge. Lopez’s mother moved into the Dalton village a little while after the war ended in eighteen-ninety-four. It’s always suspicious when a woman shows up alone with a baby. Lopez started working here when she was thirteen.” 

“As young as that?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised. Kurt thought he must be thinking of his own younger siblings being forced into work at that age in order to support his own family. 

“But how does that prove anything?” Kurt asked, still unable to ignore the story, thought doubting its credibility. 

“Word of mouth. People gossip, Kurt. Her mother might’ve hidden it well enough that nobody as high up as the Anderson family caught wind of it, but you can’t keep a bastard child secret from the lower class. We _breed_ scum.” 

Somewhere behind Kurt a door slammed shut, making the three of them jump. Lopez stood staring at them, a scowl on her face that showed no trace of emotion save for contempt. Kurt’s mouth fell agape, and he began to feel his cheeks warm before Lopez turned on her heel and stormed away in the other direction. 

“I think she may have overheard some of our conversation,” Sam said, the faintest, most unsure hint of humor in his voice as if he were attempting - and miserably failing - to diffuse the awkwardness of the situation. Kurt gritted his teeth, unable to say anything through his embarrassment. He made his way to his bedroom - leaving Sam and Brittany merely staring after him - and began penning a letter to his father. 

*

Kurt awoke earlier than usual the following morning, and found himself entirely preoccupied by the events of the previous night. Blaine, along with Lord and Lady Dalton, had returned to the estate fairly late, and Blaine had surprised Kurt by politely declining his services for the evening and retiring to bed soon afterward. The normal morning routine resumed; the quiet of the previous night making the buzz of housemaids and footmen running around seem even more alive than usual. Kurt met Blaine in his room as he always did, though there was a significant difference in Blaine’s demeanor. He seemed distant - drained, almost - and Kurt sensed that he had no desire for their usual close conversation, so a comforting silence had encompassed them instead. Once Blaine was made presentable, Kurt had left the room with an optimistic, “have a good day, milord.” Blaine had simply smiled faintly, lost in his own thoughts, and Kurt excused himself to go about the rest of his morning duties. 

A moment spare after breakfast, Kurt made his way down into one of the gardens of the abbey. He waved to Abrams as he went, the stable boy smiling at him in return. It occurred to Kurt that he hadn’t really spoken to the stable boy; he was more often outside with the horses than with the staff indoors. Blaine’s horse, coat shining brightly, stood in the stables where Kurt assumed he would remain all day, since Blaine had not requested his riding outfit. Given the bright blue skies and the glorious heat of the sun, Kurt couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness, knowing that there was something very obviously upsetting Blaine.

Eventually Kurt stumbled upon what he was looking for. A field of soft orange lilies, curling around the cool green grass, just opening out their petals in bloom. Kurt surveyed his surroundings and, on confirmation that he was far enough out in the gardens for nobody to see him, plucked a single lily from the grass. With one more furtive glance around, he hid it under a handkerchief, before heading back toward the house. 

It took him a few minutes, but eventually he found Lopez sitting quietly at a table, carefully stitching together what looked like a torn underskirt. She didn’t look up as he entered the room, although she exhaled loudly enough to indicate that she knew he was there. 

“I’m not interested in your excuses. Don’t you have work to do?” she asked scathingly.

Kurt pulled the lily from underneath the handkerchief and walked closer to the lady’s maid, placing it on the table beside her, careful not to let the flower stain the skirt. Lopez hesitated for a second, her body stiffening, before she eventually looked up at Kurt. 

“I hope this isn’t some kind of proposal of courtship, Hummel, because your rank in this household alone is low enough for me to reject you on principle, and I certainly don’t need any kind of pity from a footman.” 

Kurt smiled a little, suppressing a chuckle. He thought he saw a playful smirk pass across Lopez’s face for a fraction of a moment. 

“No, Miss. It’s an apology.” 

The lady’s maid shifted in her seat. “What for?” she snapped. 

“For gossiping. It wasn’t our place to-”

“You don’t believe my mother was widowed.” 

“It’s not-” 

“You don’t think I deserve to be here-”

“No-”

“-because you think I’m the bastard child of some runaway soldier.” 

A horrible silence crept into the room for a few moments, Lopez scowling at Kurt. 

“I’d never presume anything, Miss Lopez, and I’d never tell anybody something that wasn’t my business to tell,” Kurt replied, voice raised a little in defense. Taking a deep breath and reminding himself of his status, he lowered his tone. “I’m not going to judge you for your background, whatever it might be. I’d certainly never say you didn’t deserve a place here.”

Lopez stared at him, her gaze a little softer. “I think you’re too good to be a footman. Too wholesome,” she said. “I’ve never known a footman who didn’t enjoy a bit of gossip; it’s not just the maids, you know.” 

Kurt smiled. “You forget, I’m also a valet. You know as well as I do how important it is to keep _their_ secrets.” 

The lady’s maid nodded. She remained silent for a while, her fingers caressing the soft edges of the lily petals, before she breathed a heavy, resolute sigh. “Have you ever kept a secret so big that it left you physically tired? I swore never to tell a soul. My mother, she... she’d be so disappointed in me for telling you, but I...”

“Please don’t do something you’re not comfortable with. You might live to regret it.” 

“No, I want you to know. I need somebody to know,” she said. “Only _you_ , you understand? This _doesn’t leave this room_.” Kurt nodded his agreement, and there were a few more moments of silence, before Lopez took a single, shaky breath. 

“I am what they say I am,” she began. “Illegitimate, that is. My mother fell in love with a soldier when she was younger. He told her that he would marry her as soon as he came home after the war, and she believed him. She fell pregnant with me, he went off to fight, and she never saw him again. My mother, for the longest time, was distraught when she heard news that the war had ended but she hadn’t seen him. She assumed him to be dead. It wasn’t until people started talking that she realised he mightn’t have had any intention of coming back at all. 

“Hummel, you have to understand that my mother wasn’t like _that_. She would never have - _never have_ \- if she didn’t really and truly believe that he’d come back to her.”

Kurt nodded, and Lopez smiled sadly. 

“She moved us both, kept up the story that she’d been widowed, and when I was old enough I came here to work. End of story.” 

“I’m sorry about your mother’s death. I understand what you’re going through.” 

The girl’s eyes sparkled a little, and Kurt could see in that moment what he couldn’t before; how incredibly _young_ she looked. He realised that the lady’s maid had probably grown up years before her time; had _had_ to, to bear the burden of a secret for which many others would judge her. Kurt thought she might be about to cry, but she seemed to control herself, shaking her head and plastering on her usual smirk. 

“It’s all right. What’s the point in being a lady’s maid if she isn’t like a second mother?” she said. Kurt smiled; it was apparent all at once why Lopez was so fiercely loyal to Lady Dalton. 

“I’ll see you later, Lopez,” Kurt said with a smile, walking toward the door. 

“You can-” she paused, apparently choking on the generosity of the words. “You can call me Santana, if you want to. Only you. Nobody else. And if you breathe a word about any of this to anybody, I swear-” 

“Santana,” Kurt interrupted. “Your secret is safe with me. You owe me one, mind!” 

As Kurt left the room, he could swear he heard Santana chuckle a little in reply. 

*

_Father,_

_Bark is a fantastic dog. Don’t even attempt to deny it. And you certainly seem to have found him a suitable replacement to me, so wherein lies the problem? (I’m joking, of course)._

_You’re right. I suppose I should count myself lucky to be sharing with ‘the nice one’. Sam himself seems quite lost in love at the moment. That’s a footman and a chauffeur we’ve lost... I shall have to endeavor not to have the same fate befall me! On that note: Brittany and I will most certainly not be courting any time soon. Please never mention it again._

_That being said, the Anderson family do have quite a team of house staff. Some of them exceedingly loyal. Lopez... not quite the typical lady’s maid it turns out, and devoted to her lady more fiercely than, I daresay, any other lady’s maid in existence. And yet I am sworn to secrecy on the topic! So that will be the last you hear of Miss Lopez._

_Tell me things are okay with you. What are you getting up to? You know how I worry._

_Love,  
Kurt. _


	7. Chapter 7

Blaine awoke with a feeling of anxiety, though he couldn’t place it at first. The sun was only just beginning to rise, and though he couldn’t remember what he’d dreamt that night, he knew he must have had a disturbed sleep - the crick in his neck told him he’d spent the night tossing and turning and it was the first morning he’d woken up before Kurt had come to rouse him in several days.

It didn’t take him too long, after the sleepy haze had worn off, to remember why he was dreading the day so much. That evening, he would be traveling to McKinley Manor with his parents to dine with Lord and Lady McKinley and some distant cousins, Lord and Lady Westerville. The thought of facing Lady McKinley again so soon after their last visit made his skin crawl. If the woman’s voice hadn’t been simultaneously terrifying and grating enough when he’d been a child, now that he’d grown up and her sole focus was verbally intimidating him about his lack of ability to find a wife, their visits had become perfectly unendurable.

The sun made a pleasant change from the rain of the previous night, and Blaine couldn’t help but resent the fact that he would not be able to go riding in it, what with his mother's overbearance and the strict schedules to which he was expected to adhere. Kurt would be along at any moment to dress him for the day and prepare the evening clothes that would then be taken care of by one of the many footmen to spare at Lord McKinley's estate. Even if only for a short while, Kurt's friendly company was the only hope of respite from his morosity that he had and, seating himself by the window, he let the early morning rays warm his skin as he waited patiently for the valet to arrive.

*

The motor rumbled to life, Blaine’s entire body vibrating with it as it did so. The road crunched beneath the tires as they slowly pulled out of the grounds, leaving Dalton Abbey to shrink in the background and forcing the reality of McKinley Manor back into Blaine’s consciousness—although he was certain he had appeared positively stand-offish to Kurt, his valet's presence had helped him forget, if only for their brief time together. Watching the garden in which he usually rode pass them by, he idly imagined the look on Lord and Lady McKinley’s faces if he were to show up on horseback, plastered in mud. The picture made him chuckle to himself under his breath and his mother, seated opposite, eyed him suspiciously.

Their motorcar had to pass through the village on its way to the country roads that took them to the McKinley estate, and as it did so, Blaine let his eyes wander out of the window, roaming over the streets that passed by in a slow progression. The young children of the village were taking advantage of the warm sunshine, the boys kicking a brown leather ball between them on the village green and the girls chanting as they played their skipping ropes games. Blaine couldn’t remember ever being such a carefree child, always with some expectations heavily implanted in his conscience. Some of the children stared at the car as it went by them. Blaine’s mother tutted and Blaine shifted uncomfortably in his seat, moving his head to look out of the other window.

Two figures walked along the road, heading in the opposite direction to the motor. They were only indistinguishable for a fraction of a second before Blaine’s eyes focused on the taller and slimmer of the two - Kurt. His attire was more casual than it usually was - Blaine suspected that in the absence of himself and his parents, Mrs Sylvester had allowed him the afternoon off - and his posture appeared different, too; his body more relaxed and a smile on his face so wide and sincere that his nose crinkled a little.

The motorcar passed the two footmen, and Blaine craned his neck to see Kurt until he completely disappeared into the distance. 

“What are you staring at?” Blaine’s father snapped, his gaze sharp over the top of the newspaper. 

“I just thought I saw somebody...” Blaine replied, his voice trailing off and plummeting the car into silence once again.

*

McKinley Manor loomed ahead of them around two hours later, at which point Blaine’s legs felt so cramped from not moving that he almost breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of it.

The estate was similar in size to Dalton Abbey, although Blaine often couldn’t help noting its inferiority. However, if he were truly honest with himself, his perceiving the estate as inferior was more to do with the property's owners than the property itself. The driveway that lead to the grand front doors ran on long after the entrance gate, past several well-maintained gardens that were decorated with so many flourishing summer plants that the scent of them managed to find its way to Blaine’s nostrils despite the closed windows of the car. The sun’s position cast one of the far off gardens into the Manor’s shadow whilst illuminating the grand windows on the front of the building. Creepers weaved their way up the walls of the house, intertwining in a way that was perfectly imperfect and seemed, to Blaine, designed to cast a haunting darkness over the house. 

Lord and Lady McKinley waited at the entrance of the building to greet them, as well as several footmen standing tall and still, like pointedly handsome statues that had been placed, just so, to enhance the grand entrance. Blaine’s father assumed a smile that was plastered to his face purely for the benefit of their company. He helped Blaine’s mother step out of the car and down onto the gravel of the driveway before walking over to shake hands with Lord McKinley.

“Dalton, so good to see you again,” the man greeted, before turning to introduce his guest to the footman that would be his valet for the evening. The two ladies took the opportunity to greet one another, and Blaine followed on behind, stepping out of the car and reaching the others just as his mother had been introduced to her temporary lady’s maid. 

“Lady McKinley,” Blaine said, pushing back his reluctance to speak to the woman and smiling as sincerely as possible. 

“Master Anderson,” she replied, her voice overly friendly as she looked over him. Blaine had the impression that he was being inspected—weighed and measured to determine whether he was suitable enough to enter her house, before continuing. “You look well today. Your new footman is doing a good job. Still no fiancee though, I hear.” 

“Not as yet, my lady,” Blaine replied, refusing to let himself be angered by her implication and the tone with which she delivered it. 

“Master Anderson!” Lord McKinley said, holding a hand out to Blaine. “So good of you to join us!”

Blaine would have replied with a scathing ‘as if I had a choice’ had he no regard at all for propriety. He settled instead for shaking the man’s hand and replying, “it was very good of you to invite me.”

“Can I introduce you to our footman? This is Chang, he’ll be seeing to your needs for the duration of the evening.”

“Very good to meet you, Chang,” Blaine said with a smile. The footman bowed his head, acknowledging Blaine’s greeting with a sharp ‘Milord’, before resuming his statue-like posture.

As Lord McKinley led him and his parents through the house to the drawing room the house staff dispersed, collecting bags from the car to take to their dressing rooms, and greeting Hudson. Blaine, eyes adjusting to the dark of the Manor’s entryway from the brightness of the sun outside, fixed his attention on the harmless, rhythmic sounds of polished shoes on polished floor, with the simple hope of surviving the rest of the day.

*

Later that evening, Blaine was met by Chang in the dressing room that had been set aside for him. The evening clothes that Kurt had picked out before his departure had been hung up and brushed down, as entirely free from any creases their journey might have made as they had been before they left. 

“Master Anderson,” the footman greeted, standing tall. His dark black hair was cropped shortly and his jawline was firmly set - the image of pure professionalism.

“Chang,” Blaine said. “Good to see you again.”

The footman appeared taken aback for a fleeting moment before regaining his composure. Briefly, he nodded in acknowledgment of Blaine’s greeting, and took the evening attire from where it hung on the closet door.

Chang was taller than Kurt by several inches, and he appeared to tower over Blaine. The room was quiet, save from the shuffling of the two men and Blaine, though usually able to converse easily, found his words struggling to find their way out, as though the room were a vapid, endless vacuum that had stolen his voice and refused to let it be heard. Blaine wondered if Chang found the silence unusual or familiar - he’d clearly not been anticipating kindness when he’d entered the room - and Blaine attempted to focus on other things, so as not to allow the silence to become awkward. Once more, he found his mind wandering back to Dalton; the comfort of his own bedroom and the easiness of Kurt’s company, the way the two of them could talk on just about any topic. Chang was professional, and Blaine looked as well put together as he usually did in time for dinner, but Blaine couldn’t help missing the simple company of a friend.

Presently, he was escorted to the dining room by Chang, where he was greeted by his father, Lord McKinley and Lord Westerville, who looked a lot older than he had the last time he’d seen him some seven years previous.

“Master Anderson, you’ve joined us at last!” 

“It appears I’m fashionably late, my Lord.”

“Better fashionably late than never at all.”

“I think your mother would be impressed,” Blaine’s father chimed in. “So long as one arrives appropriately to dinner, one can be as tardy as one pleases.”

“We all know how our women like to keep us waiting,” Westerville said, laughing with Blaine’s father as if the two were sharing some kind of joke that only a married man would understand. Blaine cleared his throat and kept his attention on his host. 

“I’d like to thank you again for inviting me,” he said, over the laughter as it died down into the background. “It’s been such a long time since I last had the pleasure of visiting you here.”

“Oh, but of course. It was at her Ladyship's insistence that I did. I think her reasoning was that we couldn’t very well find you a bride without involving you.”

“Right you are, darling,” Lady McKinley’s distinctive voice rang through the dining room as the grand doors were opened by the butler and the three women entered. Blaine’s father and Lord Westerville stood as Lady McKinley made her entrance through the double doors first, followed by Blaine’s mother and Lady Westerville, who still looked the same as when Blaine had first met her as a child, when her name had been Miss Emma Pillsbury rather than Mrs Carl Howell.

Everybody took their places at the table, and the butler began to pour wine into their glasses, beginning at the head of the table - Lord McKinley - and progressing left, circling the table in a clockwise motion. 

“Lady Dalton and I were just discussing her plan to throw a ball at Dalton. Won’t that be exciting?”

“Certainly!” Lord McKinley replied enthusiastically, and turned his attention to Blaine. “You’ve merely not been exposed enough to society. No wonder you haven’t found a wife yet!”

“Oh, no wonder,” Lord Westerville chimed in. Blaine’s brow furrowed for a second before he composed himself. He almost excused the McKinley’s for their unkindness given that they’d been that way since Blaine could remember as a child, but he couldn’t help feeling that the input from Westerville, whom he had met only once, and so many years ago, was unreasonable. 

He suddenly realised that it was his turn to speak. “A ball would be a fantastic opportunity to bring people together,” he said, hoping it would suffice. 

“Oh, they are. I love it when people throw parties,” Emma chimed in. Blaine smiled at how little she seemed to have changed in the past ten years, since he’d been eleven and she sixteen. She was perpetually bright, with a kind of innocence to her face and soft, red ringlets of hair that nobody could suspect her of anything. She’d been married to Lord Westerville for almost four years, and Blaine had heard his parents gossip over breakfast about the fact that she wasn’t yet with child. Thinking of the McKinleys' apparent inability to bear children as well suddenly made Blaine wonder if it was this spurring on the tireless wife-finding mission that Blaine’s parents seem to have concerned themselves with, as though if Blaine hesitated all of the fertile women would be gone. 

“We’d never have met if Carmel hadn’t thrown that ball all those years ago,” Westerville stated, leaning back in his seat as a footman placed a bowl of soup in front of him. 

“I doubt that,” McKinley said, his gazed fixed on Emma rather than the man he was replying to. “The Lord has a way of bringing people together.” 

Emma smiled, and Blaine thought he saw the faintest of blushes tint her cheeks. 

“It was at Carmel’s ball that you met one another?” Blaine’s father asked, a rare look of genuine interest etched upon his face. Blaine suspected he was impressed that the Baron had been invited to such an event, considering that Mr St. James of Carmel was a Duke. “Perhaps we should invite him, dear?”

“I’d thought about it,” Blaine’s mother replied. 

“He’s eligible too, is he not?” Lady McKinley said. “Some difficult competition for you, Master Anderson. I’ve heard his looks are unrivaled.”

“I suspect the title has a lot to do with that,” Blaine quipped, causing the room to fall to silent for a moment before Lady McKinley smiled wickedly.

“I suspect it does. But you needn’t be intimidated. I'm positive that many young ladies would appreciate a bookish young man such as yourself.”

*

The drawing room was impeccably decorated, ornate electric chandeliers sending dazzling reflections of light up and down the wall. Blaine found himself transfixed on the mesmerizing dashes of color his eyes occasionally picked out of the dancing figures, though he wasn’t sure if it was his drink-addled gaze that was the cause or the chandeliers themselves. From the wall hung a dark framed portrait of the McKinleys and their close family, and Blaine found it all too easy to pick out which family members were directly related to Lady McKinley, the blonde locks and evil eyes apparently a trademark.

The butler made his way once again around the room with wine, which Blaine took gratefully, the dry, bitter taste lingering on his lips, causing the slightest shudder to trace its way down his spine. 

“Fabray,” Lady McKinley noted, her voice just barely making its way through Blaine’s haze enough for him to hear. “Lord and Lady Crawford have a daughter of seventeen years now. A Miss Lucy, I believe.”

“Oh yes, her elder sister married just last summer, did she not?” Blaine’s mother chimed in. 

“Oh what a lovely thing for Crawford. Both of his daughters married so young,” Emma said. “Assuming Master Anderson takes a liking to her.” 

“Of course he’ll take a liking to her,” his father said. “He took a liking to Miss Berry.” 

“Oh but a Marquess’s daughter is even better than a Viscount’s daughter,” Lord McKinley said, drinking what was left of his wine and holding his glass toward the butler for more. “Can’t blame a man for wanting to keep his options open. Eh, Anderson?”

Blaine’s eyes widened at the mention of his name, though what he was expected to say was beyond his comprehension, left too far behind with a sober and more proper self. “Yes. Yes, I agree.” 

“It doesn’t actually make a blind bit of difference, so long as he gets married soon.” 

“And so long as she’s of noble birth,” Blaine reminded his mother, a hint of a slur tainting the edges of his speech. 

“Of course,” she snapped back, her eyes narrowing pointedly - a warning that he should stop drinking. Defiantly, Blaine drained his glass and held it out again to be refilled. 

“Well then, invite Crawford and his family,” Lord McKinley said, walking over to his wife and placing a hand on her shoulder. Blaine felt he could have imagined it, but he swore that as he did so, he smiled pointedly at Emma, who turned her face away, cheeks slightly flush.

*

Blaine’s ears rang the entire way back to Dalton. Blood pulsated through his body, resounding in his ear drums with a deafening beat. His eyes drooped, his slighted, blurry vision trained on his evening shoes. His mother sat opposite, almost burning him with the hard stare she had fixed upon him. His father was, judging by the sound of rustling, reading the paper once more, as though the events of the world would be different on a second reading.

It was a long, bumpy ride home, and as the motorcar approached Dalton Abbey with the soft, midnight glow of the moon behind it, Blaine had all but sobered up, although his mood had decreased tenfold at the hazy recollection of the dismal evening. 

A ball was planned, and the solidity of it hung in the air like a torture sentence for Blaine. It was yet another evening to be melancholy about; another event in which he’d play a part of the ridiculous rules of society and pretend to care about the meaningless noblemen and women of his company. As the only heir to Dalton, Blaine wondered what his refusal to marry would mean for the property. Would the estate be passed on to some distant relative after he himself died? Perhaps a cousin of Lady McKinley or somebody even more abstract. He wondered, too, what it would mean for the rest of his life. Certainly if he married anybody not from their upper-class circle he’d be as good as dead to his parents. 

The servants greeted them at the door when they returned. With them, Blaine instantly noticed, was Kurt, who smiled - almost apologetically, as if he knew, just from the sight of him, how much he’d resented his evening - and Blaine returned a weary smile. 

“Hummel.”

“Master Anderson.” 

“Thank you for waiting for me, but I don’t require your service this evening.”

“Oh, Milord?” 

“I’m far too tired. But I shall see you as usual in the morning.” 

“A time for me to wake you, Milord?” 

Never, preferably, Blaine thought as he walked toward the front doors of the house. “Eight-thirty, Hummel.” 

He barely registered the walk from the entrance of Dalton to his bedroom, and he allowed himself to surrender to the comfort of his bed, drowning in the gloriously soft, satin sheets as he drifted off to sleep. 

*

It was the sound of birds chirping outside that woke Blaine the following morning, the faintest of lights filtering in through the window as the sun made a slow and colorful climb to the sky. Blaine, head drumming with pain, remained in bed, watching the sunrise for what seemed like an eternity, until Kurt finally came to rouse him. He mumbled the smallest of greetings as the boy entered. 

To Kurt’s credit, he said not a word as he picked out Blaine’s clothes for the day ahead, and a simple and easy silence solidified itself between them, allowing the beating in Blaine’s head to calm down a little. He kept focused on the steady breathing of Kurt and himself and concentrated on Kurt’s fingertips dancing along the edges of his waistcoat; his jacket; his tie, smoothing over the material to ensure every inch of it was perfectly well put together. For the shortest time, Blaine could have forgotten that there was anybody else in the world, could have imagined he and Kurt sharing this moment of breathtaking serenity for eternity, society be damned. 

But Kurt eventually stepped away from Blaine to allow him to look at his reflection and, as Blaine noticed he often did, admire his handiwork. With a nod, Kurt left the room, his good-natured voice wishing him a good day as he excused himself. Blaine, still somewhat lost in thoughts as he stared blankly at his reflection, made no reply.


	8. Chapter 8

Invitations were sent out not a week after Blaine’s visit to McKinley Manor, and at last the rumors were put to rest. The servants' quarters hummed with talk of eligible men and women; of which Lords and Ladies would be in attendance; of what the young ladies would be wearing - the maids, naturally, had little knowledge of what was considered the season’s fashion, and most of them talked of little else. Kurt would be lying to himself if he said that he wasn’t looking forward to it, too. It would be the largest event he had ever taken part in as a footman; he couldn’t wait to see the noblemen and women from all over the country, dressed up and dancing - real dances that Kurt had only ever heard about from his mother. He tried to tone down the excitement in his letters to his father - but Burt was able to see right through the façade, and his letters in return featured the same buzz of anticipation.

Orders had been given by Mrs Sylvester to prepare the house. An entire wing had been opened for the use of any staying guests: the maids had spent an entire week devoted to making beds, plumping pillows and dusting every imaginable surface, from closet doors to the individual crystals on every chandelier. Footmen had helped to move heavy furniture for the maids to sweep behind and under, until every room had been checked, rechecked and finally considered grand enough for guests to stay in. 

Mrs Beiste was planning a buffet menu so extravagant that Kurt hadn't even heard of some of the ingredients. Nevertheless, it was with Sam (along with an exhaustive list) that Kurt went back and forth to the village, collecting various herbs and seeds and returning to find that the cook had thought of something else in their absence for which they would have to return the following day. Kurt had watched the cook painstakingly create a fruitcake that had to be matured in liquor for two weeks, helped along by Brittany who, despite initially being a hindrance in the kitchen, had actually become fairly helpful. 

Beside the small jobs they were occasionally tasked with, the footmen had little to do in the way of preparation for the ball. Their job would come of importance on the evening itself, as Ryerson took the opportunity to remind them at every meal time. 

“The family’s name and reputation will be very much at stake if anything goes wrong at this ball,” he would say, repeatedly, to a chorus of sighs from his bored audience. “I will be watching you all like a hawk and expecting nothing but the very best from each and every one of you.”

Kurt, in the absence of any other responsibility, had turned his attention to Blaine, who had been melancholy since his return from McKinley Manor. Through stolen glances at dinner, Kurt could see in Blaine’s demeanor that he was more upset than he usually was. 

“Is something the matter, milord?” Kurt dared to venture one evening.

Blaine, who had been staring at Kurt’s fingers as he worked away the cufflinks at his wrist, snapped his head up and looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean, Hummel?” 

Kurt placed the cufflinks in a drawer of the closet amidst many of Blaine’s other valuables. “You seem so withdrawn. So... down, milord.” 

Blaine breathed a melancholy sigh, unfastening the buttons on his waistcoat, pulling it off to reveal the white evening shirt beneath, slightly taut over the muscles of his arms. “I could tell you any secret in the world, couldn’t I, Hummel? And you wouldn’t repeat it to a soul.” 

“Of course, milord,” Kurt replied, without hesitation. 

Blaine nodded and smiled humorlessly. “I would give so very much not to attend this ball.” 

Kurt hesitated, before nodding his understanding. He took the waistcoat from Blaine’s hands and hung it back in its place. It took him a few silent moments to think of a response, but he smiled fondly when he did, the memory still clear in his mind.

“My mother used to tell me stories about the dances and balls that she had seen when she’d been a maid. Only a few times, but I remember them so distinctly. She’d play the piano and sing, ever so beautifully, to a song I’d never heard before - and then she’d teach me to dance.”

“No,” Blaine exclaimed, a real smile pulling at his features. 

“Oh yes. She taught me them all. Foxtrot, waltz, one-step... she taught me to tango when I was seven.” 

“I refuse to believe you,” Blaine toyed, his eyes lit up in fascination. 

“I think I still remember some of the footwork,” Kurt laughed. 

“Show me.” 

The room fell quiet, tension burning and crowding between them as Kurt looked at Blaine in puzzlement. 

“I beg your pardon, milord?” he asked, unable to believe what he knew beyond all doubt that he’d heard. 

“Show me your dancing.” 

Kurt struggled to keep his composure, and stumbled over his words. “Oh no, I - I can’t, milord, I-” 

“Why not?” Blaine was still smiling, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. 

“Because it would be inappropriate. For me, to... play around.” 

“You wouldn’t be - Hummel, there’s nobody around to see you.” 

“You’ll see me.” 

Blaine chuckled at that; Kurt wondered if Blaine was enjoying seeing him so unsure and flustered, wondered if he found it amusing. “I’ll dance with you, if you need a partner. Would that make it easier?” 

Kurt’s eyes widened further at that suggestion, and he did his best to calm himself so that the blush he could feel rising to his cheeks didn’t betray him.

“What if somebody...” Kurt trailed off, his mouth slightly agape as he looked at Blaine pleadingly. 

“I won’t tell them if you won’t,” Blaine replied, cheekily. Kurt looked around the still room. It was just the two of them; Blaine’s parents had already retired to their respective bedrooms. “Come on, Hummel. Teach me how to dance.” 

Kurt rolled his eyes, a weak smile pulling at the edges of his lips. “Milord, you know well enough how to dance, I’m sure.” 

“Teach me how to dance the way your mother danced,” Blaine replied softly. 

Kurt looked up to see encouragement behind Blaine’s eyes as he moved towards Kurt and held out his hands. Kurt, palms a little clammy with nerves, took Blaine’s hands in his own and began to move, slowly recalling steps he had not danced in more than eleven years. His mother’s voice rang in his head, singing the words to a song he just barely remembered, and he showed Blaine the steps, counting them out loud for the two of them to follow until they found themselves moving to a rhythm the silence had picked out for them. Blaine followed with ease, of course, knowing the dance by heart having been taught the steps at an early age. Still, he let Kurt lead the way, and eventually silence was overcome by Kurt’s soft humming, and that in turn by the string of lyrics that formed a long-forgotten song.

The room disappeared as Kurt concentrated on his steps and lost himself in his song. The solidity of Blaine’s hands in his seemed to be all that was keeping him vaguely aware that he was awake, alive. Their dance space seemed endless, stretching on for them, urging them to go on. Kurt continued to sing, and he was vaguely aware of Blaine picking up on the tune, humming it low and quiet.

Eventually Kurt trailed off, failing to recall the words of the song, and as he tried to remember them, he lost his footing. He collided with Blaine, their bodies crashing together, and he sprang back, tearing his hands away from Blaine’s and uttering a flustered string of apologies. 

“Don’t be sorry, Hummel,” Blaine said, his laugh somewhat breathy. “You’re quite the dancer, it seems. I suspect you’d never find yourself in want of a partner at a ball. There’d be no end of the women who would wish to dance with you.”

Kurt laughed, diffusing whatever tension may have been left between them. “You’re rather good yourself, milord,” Kurt joked, eliciting a chuckle from Blaine, “though a few lessons probably wouldn’t go amiss.”

* * *

The day of the ball was approaching more quickly than Blaine had been expecting it to. He’d thought perhaps the wait for it would be agonizingly slow, each day picking at the flesh on his bones until, by the ball, he was little more than a skeleton; hopelessly without feeling and still trying to fit in. But that hadn’t been the case. Instead, the four weeks that had passed since their visit to McKinley Manor had gone by in such a whirlwind of activity that he’d barely registered the time at all; a blur of continuous motion that he was powerless to stop. 

Seemingly out of the blue it was when he realized it was only another two days away and that he would soon be meeting every eligible girl in the country with the single agenda of finding one to make his wife. The more he thought on it, the more he wondered if perhaps he should have simply proposed to Miss Berry after all. It would have saved him the trouble of a social event of this scale - and at least he could be friends with the girl. She was still eligible, Blaine kept reminding himself. He could still ask her to marry him and put an end to all of the ridiculous fussing with which his parents had occupied themselves. 

In the run-up to the ball, Blaine’s mother had taken pleasure in organizing every stringent detail of the way the ball would look. She’d furnished Blaine’s tailor with very specific instructions on his attire for the evening - as well as her husband’s and her own. She’d chosen all of the best spare rooms for their guests and had devised sleeping arrangements in order of rank; the Duke of Carmel with the largest and most luxurious room and descending in order of importance. Some of the staying guests had arranged to bring their own valets and lady’s maids, but those who hadn’t had been assigned some of the footmen and maids that the Dalton estate could spare. Everything was seen through to the last detail by Blaine’s mother, while his father dealt with any correspondence between Dalton and their guests. 

Blaine had participated in little beyond allowing the tailor to take his measurements and walking or riding the grounds more than usual to keep out of the way. Conversation with his parents rarely stretched to any topic beside the ball; a notion which, although not unexpected, was immensely frustrating. Every morning, when the mail was delivered to their breakfast table, he was bombarded with updated information about who would be in attendance; every evening was a chance for his mother to discuss with him every excruciating detail about their progress. Blaine had listened to little of this information, most of it passing straight through him as he nodded and murmured and pretended he was as heavily invested as his parents wanted him to be. 

Kurt was the only person in the house who seemed to have avoided the topic altogether, a fact for which Blaine would be forever grateful. His valet had, since the evening that they’d danced, ceased to mention anything relating to the ball. Blaine had taken to thinking up excuses to spend time with Kurt in order to elongate the time he wouldn’t be obliged to spend thinking about the evening. Thankfully, with his parents and the rest of the house staff so preoccupied, the list of excuses didn't need to be comprehensive, and it was all too easy for him to steal the footman away from his other duties. 

* * *

The grand hall had been set up for the numerous guests that would shortly be in attendance, food prepared, the driveway lit up with gas lamps. Everywhere Kurt looked, house staff dashed about, fixing up the final touches to ensure the evening ran smoothly. 

Kurt met with Blaine in his room late afternoon, and saw, for the first time, Blaine’s finished tailor-made suit. It was intricate, soft to the touch and undoubtedly one of the most expensive items of clothing Kurt had ever held betwixt his fingers. On Blaine, it looked even finer; broadening his shoulders and lengthening his body. No expense had been spared on Lord Dalton’s part to make his son as handsome as possible.

It was as Kurt added the final touches to Blaine’s evening suit - tightening his bow-tie - that Blaine raised his arm and rested his hand over Kurt’s, gently moving it away. Kurt watched, puzzled, as Blaine frowned to himself and let out a long, heavy sigh. 

“Is something the matter, milord?” 

“I don’t want to do this, Kurt.” 

Silence consumed the room, and Kurt’s mouth fell open a little in surprise at Blaine's uncharacteristic use of his Christian name. He’d never said it before. Blaine looked up as the silence drew on, seemingly unaware at what had caused the lapse in conversation. His face contorted into a look of worry as he saw Kurt’s expression, perhaps only just realizing what he’d said. 

“I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry-” 

“No,” Kurt said abruptly. “No, of course you haven’t, milord.”

“I just don’t think I can do this.” 

“Do what, milord?” 

The silence encapsulated them, stopping time for the longest of moments as Blaine reached for his response to the question - and the courage to voice it - until he eventually looked Kurt square in the eye. 

“I can’t pretend anymore.” 

Kurt’s brow creased a little, his mind still at odds with what Blaine was trying to articulate. 

“I can’t pretend that I care about this ball, anymore. I can’t pretend that I care about the people attending and I really... I really can’t pretend that I care about finding a wife,” he said, the words leaving his lips in a tangle of frustrated, half put-together thoughts. “I don’t care anymore, Kurt. I don’t. And this-” he gestured toward his outfit “-is just pointless. It’s all pointless.”

Kurt was taken aback, watching Blaine as he stared earnestly back at him, his eyes pleading Kurt for some sort of respite or escape. Mouth agape, Kurt stammered over his next few words.

“This... this is not unlike the many events I’m sure you’ve attended before, milord. You needn’t treat it as such.”

“It is different. This ball is for me.” 

“So you ought to enjoy it without worrying, milord.” 

“How?” Blaine’s voice was small, vulnerable, and it was the first time Kurt had ever seen him behave in such a way. It was as if the class divide no longer mattered, and it made Kurt shiver uncomfortably, unsure how to respond to it. How was he supposed to answer Blaine’s question? As if he knew the first thing about formal social events. 

“You greet the guests... you socialize with them, as you normally would. And don’t... just don’t think about it too much... milord.”

Blaine nodded, his mind seemingly occupied by thoughts or memories, his eyes staring into nothing. Then, with the faintest of smiles, he turned to Kurt. “You’ll be there, at least.”

Kurt fought the urge to laugh, deciding against expressing his doubt that he would be of much use, circling the room with drinks and food and unable to say a word to Blaine directly.

“Yes,” he said, with as comforting a smile as he could muster.

Blaine’s expression was more confident, and he chuckled to himself, shaking his head as if to rid it of his unstable thoughts. He straightened himself up again. “What would I do without you, Kurt?” 

Kurt moved towards Blaine once again, fixing his bow-tie until he was satisfied that Blaine was presentable. “Oh, I’m sure you’d get along just fine, milord,” he replied, though as he turned to retrieve the clothes brush he’d left on the table behind him he smiled at the sound of his name on Blaine’s lips, and secretly hoped that Blaine kept him as his valet forever. Just to be safe. 

* * *

Blaine wasn’t expecting the sheer glamor of the guests as they flooded through the grand entryway. His eyes were drawn, always, to the sparkling dresses that the women wore, their outfits differing in style and color from lady to lady in a way that male outfits never did and never had. On the perfectly polished floor of the grand hall danced ghostly reflections of the guests, their sketchy imperfection reminding Blaine of a silent movie. The thought was comforting; that the figures were imprisoned on film reels, unable to speak directly to him. 

Of course, that wasn’t the case. Blaine had been introduced to more men and women than he could keep track of, though he’d barely had to say a word in return. For every family he met, he simply stumbled along the rehearsed and practiced few sentences that seemed to please the visitors, if not his mother, whose greeting was somehow unique for every guest. 

Music echoed around the room, and each note the string quartet played was a well-known dance that had people making their way to the allocated dance floor. Blaine’s gaze wandered over toward it, watching couples take their places for the next dance, and he caught sight of Kurt, a flash of light brown hair and pale skin. Blaine smiled as he watched the boy, thinking back a few weeks to when he’d shown Blaine his own dancing. It hadn’t been perfect - it was obvious that he’d learnt the steps years previously from a woman who had, herself, probably only learnt through the observation of her superiors - but it had been fun. Carefree, almost; the way Kurt had lost himself in the footsteps and his singing. Blaine had lost himself in it, too, eyes trained on the pale face of his valet as Kurt had stared at his feet. 

Looking at the dancers now, Blaine decided that it was obvious that none of them were having as much fun as he had had that night. 

“Lord Carmel,” Blaine’s father’s voice pierced his thoughts, forcing him to bring his attention back to his parents. “How pleased we are that you could join us.”

“It’s my pleasure, Lord Dalton.” Blaine eyed the duke, taking in the taller man’s appearance. His hair was a shade of dark blond, and it fell just below his ears; a length Blaine’s father detested on gentleman, though Blaine supposed that, given his status, he’d be excused from the mental degradation to which Blaine was certain his father would subject every other guest who failed to meet his standards. He was still wearing his top hat, despite now being indoors, and his white gloved hands were clutched around a cane with a golden handle. Lady McKinley had been right when she’d implied that he was handsome - Blaine could almost feel the eyes of all the young ladies in the room boring straight through him and staring at the Duke in awe. 

“Master Anderson,” Carmel greeted, hand outstretched. “Good to meet you at last.”

Blaine took his hand. “Lord Carmel.” 

“I trust your journey was a pleasant one, your Grace?” 

“It was bumpy,” the Duke said, his honesty taking Blaine’s father aback. People tended to forgo honesty in preference for politeness. Apparently that unspoken rule did not apply to the Duke of Carmel. Blaine had to bite back laughter as he caught sight of the bemused look on his father’s face. 

“Allow our butler to take your coat and hat, your Grace,” Blaine’s mother suggested, attempting to fill the stunned silence that his father wasn’t able to. The Duke eyed the butler as he neared, and hummed at him suspiciously before clucking his tongue and allowing Ryerson to take both his hat and coat. 

“What an adorable abode you have here,” he said as he walked out slightly into the hall and looked over the dancing couples. Blaine caught the slightest sneer in his voice and tensed, hoping that the urge to defend Dalton would subside. “I’m quite honored to be here.” His eyes were on Blaine when he turned back around. “You must feel quite a responsibility on your shoulders, knowing you’re to inherit all of this.” 

Blaine stretched his hand, holding it firmly down by his side, pushing his fingers out of their urge to clench into a fist. He smiled. “Of course, your Grace. But I’m sure I’ll manage. It’s amazing what can be achieved through a little humility and some good manners.” 

The Duke looked puzzled for a moment, before excusing himself with a sharp nod and walking toward the main hall of people, submerging himself into the crowed. Blaine couldn’t help but note how much the Duke and Lady McKinley would suit one another. 

Another family followed instantly behind the Duke - people who instantly appeared a lot less standoffish. 

“Lord Crawford, a pleasure,” Blaine’s mother said. She laid a hand on Blaine’s shoulder to win his attention back. Blaine turned his gaze to a tall, gruff man, whose forehead bore more wrinkles than Blaine thought he’d ever seen on a person. “Our son, Master Anderson,” his mother introduced. 

Blaine shook the man’s hand and greeted him. Lord Crawford responded with politeness, though Blaine had the notion that he wanted to be there as little as his own father did. 

Lady Crawford followed behind, petite and blonde and so unsuited to her husband in looks that Blaine found the contrast amusing. The girl who followed Lady Crawford, however, was not amusing in the slightest.

Miss Fabray was - without a shadow of a doubt - the most beautiful woman Blaine had ever seen; far prettier than Miss Berry had been, and far too pretty, surely, to be the offspring of Lord and Lady Crawford. 

Her skin tone was pale; made paler by her dark blue dress, adorned with jewels that caught the light with every subtle movement. Her hair was a color of golden blonde that had clearly been inherited from her mother and she was a few inches short of Blaine’s height. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. 

“Master Anderson,” she said, her voice low and steady in a way Blaine presumed was meant to be alluring. 

“Miss Fabray,” Blaine replied in a tone quite the opposite - voice caught in his throat. She smiled; Blaine swallowed. This was the woman his parents intended him to marry - a lady any of the other men in the room would fight over; a face that looked as though she was good at getting precisely what she wanted. The very idea that Blaine should marry her was preposterous. He couldn’t envisage any version of such a reality which could be plausible. 

“Miss Fabray,” a new voice entered their group, “you look well this evening.” 

“Lady McKinley,” the young girl replied, her attention flitting from Blaine to the older lady, whose husband seemed to have disappeared somewhere into the crowd of guests. Blaine’s eyes darted toward where she stood, taking in the sight of her immaculate black and red dress. She was smiling at Miss Fabray with a look in her eye that Blaine was sure he’d seen in falcons before they swooped down onto their prey. 

“Lord Crawford, how is your recently married daughter?” she asked, turning to the Marquess with a pointed expression. 

“Well, thank you. Quite well,” Lord Crawford said, and then - with an air of superiority, added, “she very recently gave birth to a son.” 

“Wonderful news!” Lady McKinley exclaimed, turning back to Miss Fabray. “Such wonderful news for your sister.” 

“Yes, my Lady.” 

Lady McKinley then rounded on Blaine, poised as though she were about to say something. Blaine’s mind stumbled from thought to thought, trying to think of a topic of conversation before Lady McKinley could do her best to embarrass him, but his thoughts were chased away by her piercing glare. He tensed a little, bracing himself mentally for what was about to come - but the next female voice he heard was that of Miss Fabray. 

“Master Anderson, I feel we ought to get to know one another. Perhaps if you were to invite me to dance, we could talk together.” 

Both Blaine and Lady McKinley appeared surprised by the girl’s forwardness but Blaine found himself about ready to chuckle his appreciation at having averted Lady McKinley’s conversation. 

“What an excellent idea, Miss Fabray. Would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me?” 

Miss Fabray smiled, and took the hand that Blaine had held out for her, allowing him to guide her through the hall to where the other couples were poised to begin the next dance. 

* * *

It was every bit as grand as Kurt had imagined it would be. More so, in fact, given that he’d really had very little idea of what to expect. Ladies in every color of dress he could think of, gentlemen clad in tails and top hats, each family to enter through the grand doors seemingly grander than the last. When Kurt’s mother had last witnessed a ball, the guests would have arrived by horse and carriage; she had made a point of telling Kurt how the sound of hooves clip-clopping towards the manor had been cause for fresh excitement as the maids had tried to guess who was arriving next. It was the only thing Kurt felt was missing from the ball; the guests arrived at the entrance accompanied by the sputtering and unnatural sound of the motorcar. 

Nevertheless, he reveled in the atmosphere, enjoying his work, moving from group to group of people, able to listen in to their conversations inconspicuously. Much of their gossip meant little to him - names of people and scandals he’d heard nothing of - but it was amusing to realize that they were just like the servants in that respect; gossiping was human nature, and they were all susceptible to it.

Kurt looked in Blaine’s direction often, though of course the man was too busy to return his glances. Kurt was able to see how easily Blaine masked his emotions, how he was able to greet his guests, talk to them, with no hint of revealing the turmoil he’d experienced before, when he’d fretted about the evening. Kurt supposed that was something he’d been taught to do as a member of the upper class; heaven forbid anybody should know what he was really feeling. 

Kurt gazed around the room once more, finding Blaine leading a young lady over to the floor and taking their positions ready for the next dance. Blaine looked up at him at last, just as he took the lady’s gloved hand into his own, and Kurt’s breath hitched in his throat as Blaine grinned at him. Kurt averted his gaze instantly, looking around to make sure nobody had seen their fleeting interaction. They hadn’t, of course. The guests were far too involved in themselves. 

Music began to play, and Blaine led the lady through the same steps he and Kurt had danced together. It was more professionally done, naturally, with the flair of having been raised to know it by heart. With so many other couples dancing around Blaine in an almost perfect synchronization, Kurt could have watched them forever in awe as the scene unfolded before him. A man behind Kurt snapped his fingers, alerting Kurt to the absence of any alcohol in his glass, and Kurt jumped to refill it, before the man - the Duke of Carmel, he had discovered - could rebuke him. 

He moved around the room, watching Blaine and the lady as he served. Blaine seemed to find her entertaining, smiling and laughing as she spoke to him. Kurt wondered if it was an act; if she was, like Miss Berry, only to become a friend of Blaine’s. Kurt hoped that he was merely pretending, that perhaps he’d consider that she wasn’t right to marry, too. If Blaine married Miss Fabray, he would likely find himself splitting his time between Dalton Abbey and the Crawfords’ family estate, until Dalton was passed to him. Kurt could, of course, find himself hired personally by Blaine, go with him no matter where Blaine spent his time. But Blaine was so blasé about things that there was a part of Kurt that wouldn’t be at all surprised if Blaine kept Kurt for his time at Dalton and used another footman for his time at Crawford. It could mean days, weeks, months even between their meetings, and the realization hit him hard. He bit the inside of his mouth until he could taste blood on this tongue, hating himself for the thought.

“She’s far too superior for you, Kurt.” 

Kurt was startled out of his daze by Sam’s voice, and he realized that Sam had followed his gaze over to Blaine. 

“You’re one to talk, aren’t you?” Kurt joked, thankful that Sam had assumed that Kurt was staring at the lady. Of course, that’s what Sam assumed. It would be unnatural to assume anything otherwise. “Who is she?” 

“I think she’s a Marquess’s daughter. Lord Crawford’s,” Sam said, nodding his head in the direction of the girl’s father. “Miss Fabray is the name I heard.” 

Kurt nodded, looking back over to Blaine and Miss Fabray.

“I know. She’s stunning,” Sam said, patting Kurt on the shoulder. “But she is completely out of your league.” 

“Shut up,” Kurt said, playfully shrugging off Sam’s hand. Sam grinned at him and went back into the crowd, leaving Kurt where he was. The worst part was that Sam was right; Miss Fabray was out of his league, the two of them separated by etiquette, fortune and class. Yet he knew he’d have more chance having a love affair with her than he would ever have with Blaine - and suddenly the idea of that filled Kurt’s entire consciousness. He rebuked himself, feeling his insides contort almost painfully as he hoped to God that nobody had seen the thought flash across his eyes. 

* * *

“You’re more forward than I was expecting,” Blaine admitted as the two of them danced a steady one-step routine, back and forth across the dance floor. 

“I believe it’s traditional, at a ball, to dance. Is it not?” Miss Fabray said, innocently. “A lady has every right to dance with the host, no?”

“I don’t believe I’m the host,” Blaine pointed out, inclining his head toward his father. 

Miss Fabray let out a sigh that appeared somewhere between exasperation and humor. “I didn’t think I could endure much more of Lady McKinley’s chit chat.” 

“Then we are already on the same page, Miss Fabray,” Blaine said with a smile, looking toward where Kurt was standing as he danced. Kurt smiled before turning quickly away, and the sudden loss of his attention made Blaine feel empty somehow. “You look beautiful, if I may say so.” 

“Thank you,” she said, her smile telling Blaine that she already knew that about herself. Blaine wondered, for a fleeting second, how many other gentlemen she had managed to coerce into dancing with her throughout her life. 

“I understand this ball is for you,” she said as their dance continued. She twirled once, her hand remaining in Blaine’s as he held it above her head and bought it back down as they resumed the regular one-step.

Blaine raised his eyebrows. “I haven’t any idea what you mean, Miss Fabray.” 

“You needn’t be so bashful, Master Anderson. Your parents want you married, I expect. Your guest list includes all of the usual families, but I’ve noticed particularly high numbers of eligible ladies. Miss Berry, Miss Cohen, Miss Jackson-” she pointed them out with her eyes as she noted them, all of the ladies scattered about the room in the midst of their conversations, their dances, “-Miss Zizes, Miss Pepper, Miss Corazon, Miss Pearce... myself.” 

“We also have a good amount of eligible bachelors,” Blaine said, hoping to draw her focus away from a conversation he had no intention of entering into. “See: the Duke of Carmel, Flanagan, Hart...” 

“Oh, of course. Every successful ball needs a single gentleman to every single lady - and I suspect your mother knows how to draw up a suitable guest list. But every private ball is designed with one person in mind, and tonight, that person is you. So tell me, Master Anderson,” she purred as the song closed, holding the final note for a long moment. “Has any lady taken your fancy tonight?” 

Blaine’s stomach churned with nerves. Miss Fabray was teasing him, he knew, and he had no idea what he was expected to reply. As the final note dropped into quiet, Blaine released Miss Fabray’s hand and bowed courteously. “If you’ll excuse me, I - I have to...” Blaine said. He left his sentence unfinished, stepping away from Miss Fabray and heading toward the nearest footman, Evans, for a drink. He might have imagined it, but Blaine thought he saw a smile on the girl’s lips. 

*

“Master Anderson,” a cheerful voice rang from behind Blaine. He swallowed down the last of his wine, before turning to see Miss Berry and smiling. “You look well.” 

“I am, Miss Berry, thank you. How have you been?” 

“Very well. I’m so pleased to see you again. I’ve missed your company a great deal.” 

Blaine raised his eyebrows in disbelief, and chuckled at the thought. “Surely not? What on Earth is there to miss about my company?” 

She looked as though she were considering something, questioning whether she ought to say something or not, before smiling and settling with, “Your intellect. I so rarely have the opportunity to talk with somebody as clever and well-read as yourself.” 

Blaine smiled. “I suspect my musical talent was missed a great deal, too?” he joked. 

She laughed, and Blaine found himself laughing, too, the sound of it comfortable and infectious. 

“Not as much as I missed your humor,” she said. 

Blaine looked the girl over; her dress was black, decorated with patterns of luxurious pink silk and embellishments. Her hair had been curled tightly and pinned up with meticulous care by her lady’s maid. She looked every bit as lovely as she had months before, and again Blaine wondered if perhaps it would be easier to simply ask Miss Berry to marry him. Their marriage needn’t be one of two strangers, but of two people who could talk easily together, who didn’t feel the need to dance around topics that other people did. He might not love his wife in the way that he previously thought that he was supposed to - but he wouldn’t detest her, either. 

“Master Anderson, you seem to have been occupying the time of two of the most beautiful girls in the room all evening. I beg an introduction.” 

The Duke smiled in Miss Berry’s direction, and she blushed in return, turning her face away bashfully and smiling. He persisted with his gaze. 

“This is Miss Berry, your Grace. Miss Berry, this is the Duke of Carmel, Mr St. James.” 

Miss Berry extended her hand and the Duke made a point of kissing her gloved knuckles. 

“Whilst I’m sure your discussion here is riveting, might I ask permission to steal her, Anderson? For the next dance? If the lady will agree, of course,” he said. 

“Certainly,” Blaine said with a smile, accepting another drink from a passing footman. 

“I’ll be sure to return her in one piece,” the Duke promised, as he took Miss Berry’s hand and lead her toward the dance floor. 

Blaine watched them for a while, the two of them talking and laughing happily together as they danced, the Duke, naturally, the most elegant dancer Blaine had seen. He scolded himself, not for the first time, for entertaining the idea of asking Miss Berry to marry him. Seeing her happy as she danced with another gentleman, he remembered why he had refused to marry her in the first place; she deserved to marry somebody who could love her. If that person happened to be the Duke of Carmel, all the better for her. 

He scanned the room, his eyes passing across every footman before he fixed his gaze on Kurt once again. His attention was occupied, serving one of the families Blaine had been introduced to but had long since forgotten the name of. Blaine smiled at the thought of the evening finally drawing to an end, and Kurt being there to help him wind down. He looked forward to Kurt’s easy ability to involve him in a conversation that didn’t make him feel completely out of his depth. 

Just as Kurt turned around and almost looked in Blaine’s direction, Blaine’s mother caught his arm in her grip and ushered him toward the hall again to introduce him to yet more strangers Blaine would probably never see again. 

*

“You look flush, Miss Berry,” Blaine said in a hushed voice close into the girl’s ear. “It’s very telling.”

“Hush,” the girl replied with a smile, playfully batting Blaine’s arm. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh, no?” Blaine raised his eyebrows and his grin was nothing if not ridiculously over-the-top. 

Miss Berry giggled, her cheeks turning pink to match her dress. “He’s such a good conversationalist.” 

“Miss Berry, I do believe that I am quite a good conversationalist, yet you do not blush under my gaze. What you mean is that he knows how to flatter you.” 

The girl gasped, mock offended, although she retained her girlish smile. “He can dance. Far better than you can.” 

“Oh, at that I simply take offense. How could you know? We’ve never danced together,” Blaine teased. 

“He’s a Duke, Master Anderson. You’re merely an Earl’s son.”

“Oh, he’s a Duke, is he? Aren’t you setting your sights a tad high? For a Baron’s daughter?”

The two laughed at one another, alcohol having lowered their inhibitions enough for slightly risque conversation. 

“There’s always room to set the bar a little higher,” she informed, playfully. “I couldn’t marry you - your social status is far too low.” 

“Why, Miss Berry, I don’t believe that I ever expressed a desire to marry you. Am I such an open book?” 

Miss Berry looked over toward Blaine’s parents, the two of them excellent hosts, walking from group to group of people with bright smiles on their faces. “No, Master Anderson. They I can read like an open book. You, sir? I cannot read you at all.” 

Blaine had nothing to say in reply, and sipped his drink with purpose. Miss Berry’s gaze fell on Lord Carmel once again, and he winked at her, inclining his head to suggest she should join him. 

“You don’t mind?” 

“No, of course not,” Blaine said in earnest, smiling. 

“I’m glad we’re such good friends,” she told him, before she made her way over to Lord Carmel and he led her toward the dance floor again. 

“So it’s Miss Berry you’ve taken a liking to, then, Master Anderson?” The sound of Miss Fabray’s voice filled Blaine’s ears. “And you’ve some competition I see.”

“Not at all, Miss Fabray. Miss Berry and I are merely good friends.”

Blaine looked at the girl beside him. Her face was expertly controlled, showing no trace of her emotions; she seemed focused on everything around her, as though she knew every detail of what was going on. Blaine wasn’t sure whether it was the blur in his mind that the alcohol had created, or if, on some level, he simply knew he had to, but he offered his hand out to her.

“The next dance, my lady?” he asked. 

She appeared surprised by the invitation, but took his hand nonetheless. 

“Why not?” 

Just as the string quartet began to play the opening notes of the song, Blaine caught the eye of his mother, standing a short distance away, nodding her approval. He withdrew his glance, avoiding her gaze as he had done for the majority of the evening, and looked toward the grandfather clock. The night was still young, and he supposed he might as well attempt to enjoy it.


	9. Chapter 9

The more Blaine thought about it, the more confused he became. He was in just the same position with Miss Fabray as he had been with Miss Berry; he was fairly certain that he couldn’t love her the way he wanted to love a wife. And yet, where Miss Berry and he were friends, Blaine considered Miss Fabray as much a part of the elaborate game that all of society must play as any member of his family. She seemed detached to the notion of marriage, of love; appeared as bent on finding a wealthy, society-approved match as every other soulless woman Blaine had ever met. Miss Fabray was Miss Berry’s polar opposite.

Blaine watched them both as the evening went on. Miss Berry, who seemed to, if not exactly shun, then at least dislike the conventions of society, went from dancing partner to dancing partner and showed each of them courtesy, each of them politeness. But her eyes were almost never more than a few minutes away from the duke, a soft smile brightening her face whenever she caught his eye. She was besotted by him, and he by her - and Blaine was pleased that he’d refused to condemn Miss Berry to the life she’d have had with him. 

But Miss Fabray - she was entirely different. She flitted from partner to partner without treating any of them any differently. She was as forward and direct as she had been with Blaine. She was calculated. It was her first season in society and yet she knew how to utilize it as well as somebody who had done the season a hundred times over. She was looking for a husband, not a lover; looking for comfort, title, money and stability, not for love. There was an ‘ideal’ that was instilled in every girl from a young age that the best kind of life a lady could expect was to no longer be dependent on her father, but to be the lady of a house and estate... and Miss Fabray seemed wholly committed to that ideal. She was, for all intents and purposes, exactly the sort of lady Blaine ought to make his wife. And for any other soulless, heartless member of the upper class, it would be the easiest decision to make. They’d feel it a moral duty, even, to their family, to their estate, to their wealth and even to the girl they were marrying; it was the highest honor to marry a wealthy gentleman and doing so would spare the shame of being an old maid.

But soulless and heartless were the very two things Blaine didn’t want to become. For him it was the most difficult of decisions to make. 

*

The evening drew out for what felt like a lifetime, but eventually the first of their guests began to leave for the night train, exchanging pleasant goodbyes with their hosts and declaring that they’d had a most enjoyable evening. Blaine’s sigh of relief was so heavy as the guests began to leave that he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the entire ballroom had felt it reverberate about the hall. But the band kept on playing, and the guests kept on talking, and nobody noticed.

Blaine, certainly by his mother’s account, had had a triumphant evening. He’d danced with every young lady in attendance - some more than once - and had held his share of conversations more successfully than he’d imagined he would; a much closer representation of the gentleman he’d been raised to be than he had managed of late. Not a single guest had complained, no gossip concerning the hosts had been passed around the room - as far as Blaine and his parents were concerned, of course - and the footmen had been prompt and well presented all night. The evening had been incredibly successful. Even Blaine’s father seemed to have a genuine smile on his face; a twitch just at the edge of his lips, his usually stone-cold, plain face flush with alcohol and ego.

It was as the crowd thinned out and the noise died down that Blaine, wandering about the hall, began to hear snippets of conversation. A smile pulled at his lips at the uncouth nature of some of their guests, clearly oblivious to Blaine’s eavesdropping, or simply uncaring—the alcohol had certainly been flowing more freely into some mouths than others. 

“Miss Berry and the Duke? Surely not? What an incredibly fortunate match for her-”

“-What an awful dress, the girl should seek out a new seamstress-”

“-I daresay, they’ve been missing for half the evening. Quite a scandal if anybody should have noticed and I’m certain that people have-”

“-So unladylike for her to squeal like that... I mean, it was silly of him to sneak upon her like he did, but the way she screamed you’d have thought she’d been met with an octopus in the punch bowl-” 

“Look at him; searching for his wife like a shepherd after lost sheep,” Blaine heard a gentleman mutter as he passed them, and he glanced in the direction he and his conversational partner were looking. Lord Westerville was on the receiving end of their glances, moving his way through merry crowds of people in the hall, his wife, Emma, decidedly absent. “He should learn to control his woman.”

“How unbecoming it is for a lady to wander off without her husband,” the other gentleman commented with a roll of his eyes. “Lady McKinley has been just the same all night, swanning from group to group of people with her gossip. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of her husband.”

Blaine caught sight of his mother beckoning him over and left the gentlemen to their disdain. She was stood at the grand entrance with the McKinley’s - his Lordship apparently having resurfaced. 

“It’s been such a pleasure to have you here, of course,” Blaine’s mother smiled at the couple. She was apparently unaware of the rumors circulating the hall about the two of them - or else she was an even better actress than Blaine had imagined; usually his mother would scorn at any notion of unsatisfactory behavior.

“It’s been an honor, my Lady,” Lord McKinley said. His grip was firmly on his wife’s shoulder, keeping her close. 

“Your car is outside, milord,” Ryerson informed, his hand on the brass door handle to open it for them as soon as they were ready. 

“Do travel home safely,” Blaine’s mother said. 

“Well done, Master Anderson, on your successful evening,” Lady McKinley said, her smirk still set upon her cruel features. “I’m sure your mother is so pleased.” Blaine smiled as politely as he could manage. 

“Thank you for your company,” he said to the both of them, an air of finality in his voice.

The McKinley’s left, and as Blaine heard the engine of the motorcar roll away into the distance he breathed happily in the knowledge that he would likely not be required to visit the two of them again for at least another few weeks. 

Those people who had traveled further to get to Dalton, and thus were staying the night, began to disperse at last, escorted to their rooms by footmen, all of them gradually disappearing into a wing of the grand house to which Blaine wasn’t sure even he had ever ventured. Miss Berry and her father had their respective suites, Miss Fabray and her family, the Duke, too, all of them eventually disappeared to their rooms. Emma was discovered at last as the number of guests remaining came down into single digits, standing nearby the string quartet, humming along to their music and Blaine had to hide a chuckle as Lord Westerville darted over to her and bought her back to the hosts with the firm grip of his hand around hers, as though he were reclaiming something stolen. 

The grandfather clock ticked over into three a.m., and at last the music ceased at Lord Dalton’s orders. The Anderson’s were the only people left in the hall, bar the small gathering of footmen and Ryerson, and Blaine was grateful that the night was at last over. He bid goodnight to his parents before he went to his bedroom, followed presently by Kurt.

*

Even the sun seemed lazy in its occupation over the week that followed the ball, rising up to stream into Blaine’s bedroom every morning, accompanied by half-hearted warmth that simply wasn’t enough to coax him out of bed. It took Kurt, bright every morning, to wake him in time for breakfast. 

The clock had dragged since the guests had left after brunch the morning after the ball. Blaine’s mother had since taken it upon herself to rest on account that the past few weeks had ‘simply drained her of energy’, as if the incident hadn’t been entirely her own idea in the first place. His father remained his usual quiet self, reading the paper all morning and off in his study every afternoon. The house staff, whilst no doubt working as hard as ever, appeared almost absent in the calm after the storm, and Blaine missed their constant bustling about the house as it stood in its renewed stillness. 

A sudden boredom had come upon him in the loss of something to fret over. Now that his time with Kurt was drawn short and his parents weren’t constantly breathing down the back of his neck, he was once again without purpose, and with a seemingly far longer day ahead of him. Once or twice after his rides about the grounds, he’d stayed by Abrams, watching the stable boy work, conversing with him as much as could be deemed appropriate. He’d wondered, once or twice, what it must be like to be a working man, to never be without something to do. Between hunting and shooting seasons - the former of which was some months away and the latter several months previous - Blaine, as heir to Dalton, had little to do with his time until he took his father’s title. His occupation could be described with a single crude but accurate statement: ‘waiting for father to pass away’. Everything that happened in between was irrelevant, and the fact was making Blaine more restless than ever. 

He required a purpose, and, though he admitted it begrudgingly, there was only one place he knew that he could find it.

* * *

“Another love letter? Goodness knows how you’ve the time to write so many.” 

Sam was sat, hunched over the desk, his brow creased in frustration. Kurt had lost count of the number of times he’d seen him in just the same position in the past week alone. It had become habit; finishing his duties with Blaine for the day, clambering the uneven, concrete stairs to his room and finding Sam with a pen in his hand, ink staining his fingers and paper crumpled up on the floor. 

“Not a love letter,” was all Sam replied, crunching the paper up in his fist and throwing it to the wall, dull eyes following it as it bounced away from him. 

“Oh?” 

“I can’t - I’m trying to-” Sam stuttered, before finally turning to Kurt, an earnest and innocent look in his eyes. “How would you ask a man permission to marry his daughter?” 

The sentence took a moment to sink into Kurt’s conscience. How would Kurt ask a man’s permission to marry his daughter? He’d never thought about it; never had the need... until he’d come to Dalton nobody had ever remotely interested him (and who interested him at Dalton was enough to have him jailed if anybody so much as suspected it). A thousand responses came to mind, none of which would be helpful in the slightest. What left his lips, however, was an incredulous, “You’re going to ask him in a letter?”

Sam’s face crumbled. “How else can I ask?” 

“I’ve heard face-to-face is commonly considered acceptable in the middle-class.” 

“But Kurt-” his voice sounded like that of a child whining his reluctance to attend Sunday school. “I can’t do that. He’ll turn me down. Kick me out and tell me never to come again.”

Kurt raised his eyebrow. “Well, he could tell you that just as easily by letter.” 

“Yes,” Sam said, with a sigh. “But at least then I wouldn’t have to see the look of disappointment...” 

At first Kurt supposed it was of the man he was addressing in his letter that he spoke, that Sam feared some kind of disappointed glance from the man he considered a family friend; disappointment at having asked such a ridiculous question. But the far-off look in Sam’s eyes confirmed that he was instead thinking of Louisa discovering the sorry news: that her father didn’t consider Sam good enough for her to marry. 

Sam didn’t wait for any kind of advice. He blew out the candle that rested on the desk and threw away his sheet of paper, falling into his bed without a second glance at Kurt.

*

The lull after the ball made life at Dalton appear almost easy; Kurt’s dawn-'til-after-evening hours seeming like a blessed holiday. The servant’s quarters were no longer abuzz with gossip, making them seem comparatively silent - even the bells that rang to call a footman or maid up for duty seemed fewer and further between, as though half of the family had perished.

“I wonder if they’ll be throwing any other balls soon,” Brittany dared to mention over supper one night. “The last was so much fun.” 

A few of the maids hummed in agreement, though Kurt wondered how it was that they’d found the evening fun when their only participation had been stealing glances through the crack in the door leading from the servants' staircase to the dining room or from one of the upper floor windows.

“I wouldn’t have thought so. The next party ever gets thrown at Dalton will be for Master Anderson’s wedding, mark my words,” Mrs Sylvester commented, an air of knowledgeable authority in her voice.

“Surely not?” Puck said, smirking. “Master Anderson? Married before the next party?” 

“That’ll be enough from you, Noah Puckerman-” Puck scowled at the use of his full name “-I happen to have it on good authority that when the post was collected this evening, a letter addressed to Miss Fabray was amongst the pile.” 

“Master Anderson wrote to Miss Fabray?” 

Most of the staff within earshot turned to Kurt at his incredulous question. Only Sam’s attention was not cast upon him, the blond boy’s brow still knitted in concern of his own problems. 

“Does the news surprise you, Porcelain? I though he might’ve mentioned it to his valet, if nobody else.” 

Kurt’s mouth was dry, and his attempt to swallow was painful. “I suppose he felt the topic was unimportant.” 

“Or maybe he felt it was too important,” Brittany said, excitement visibly bubbling up within her. “Perhaps the letter was a proposal to her!”

“Perhaps we ought to leave the gentleman’s business to himself,” Kurt said, his eyes flashing in warning to Brittany, whose smile dimmed a little. 

“Oh don’t be so proper, Hummel. It’s just a bit of fun,” Puck said with an obnoxious smile. 

“No, Hummel’s right,” Santana chimed in, her attention piqued. “It’s Master Anderson’s business, not ours. You shouldn’t meddle where you’re unwanted, Puckerman - you ought to know better than that. You're not his valet any longer.” 

Puck looked about ready to retort, before Mrs Sylvester told them all to calm down, and everybody continued to eat in silence. Kurt flashed an appreciative smile in Santana’s direction, and she nodded back. 

It was the last anybody spoke of it that evening, but Kurt suddenly found himself lost, unable to think of anything other than Blaine’s letter to Miss Fabray. Of course the man was entitled to write to whomever he pleased; indeed he’d sent many a letter to Miss Berry, the two of them just friends. It was no business of Kurt’s who Blaine chose to correspond with. It was especially no business of his whom Blaine ended up married to. He simply couldn’t suppress the jealousy that hit him, hard, every time he thought on the topic. Every time he thought of the wedding, the bride, Blaine’s finger’s caressing Miss Fabray’s soft skin on their wedding night-

No. He couldn’t allow himself to think on it. The vision was almost unendurable, and yet so devastatingly foreseeable. But it was none of his business, and never would be. 

* * *

_Dear Master Anderson,_

_I must confess, I was not expecting a letter from you. Our dancing the other night was singularly outstanding, but I doubted that your interests in me continued much beyond that. I rather thought I was - how did you put it? - much more forward than you would have expected._

_Do not think I am not pleased to have received your letter, though. Quite the contrary, in fact; I was resolved to write you by the end of the week, and then this happened upon our breakfast table, quite to my delight._

_I have been keeping well, yes, thank you - I’ve attended quite a number of parties this season, though none hosted at quite so grand a place as Dalton Abbey. Indeed, people have been talking of it endlessly for the past week; every meal, every garden party - everybody has had your name on the tip of their tongues. You ought to be a very proud host, Master Anderson. Your parents, too. There’s nothing quite like the bringing together of people._

_I have been away from my home for so long of late; London is such an exciting place, one can never stay there for merely a day or two. It was the day after your ball, in fact, that I returned to Crawford for the first time in over a month, and I was pleased to find that our gardeners have been hard at work whilst we’ve been away; the garden that belongs to me is full of blossoms. I remember you saying that you enjoyed the outdoors. Our grounds at Crawford might surprise you, Master Anderson. Such a fine place for a rider to exercise his horse, and indeed, when the sun shines down upon them, a divine place to read. I wonder if you are intrigued? I wonder if you’ll come to visit? It would certainly please my parents to meet you here - perhaps the suggestion of you staying for a fortnight might interest you? Or am I being too forward? Heaven forbid._

_Our Lord moves in mysterious ways, Master Anderson, but I do so hope He sees fit to reunite us very soon._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Miss Lucy Fabray_

Blaine read the letter several times over before allowing himself to conclude that it was an invitation, loud and clear, to visit her family estate. There was no mistaking the words she had used, the smirk that must have been affixed to her face as she was writing the letter. Blaine wondered if she’d planned it—if she’d thought, deliberately, of the best way to tease him—or if she was merely always so upfront. It was unusual to Blaine; he’d never known a lady to be so confident with her words; certainly not one as young as Miss Fabray. He wondered if it were her father’s status that gave her such confidence - as a Marquess he was, of course, of a higher status than Blaine’s father. Perhaps Miss Fabray thought that persuading an Earl’s son to marry her would be her easy way ‘out’, so to speak. With her sister already married to a Marquess and a male heir having been born already, Miss Fabray could marry as low down as a Baron without anybody blinking an eyelash. Why look for better than Blaine when Blaine was already there for the taking?

It was stupid. Cowardly, perhaps, for Blaine to admit it, but at least Miss Fabray was doing the hard work, laying the foundations. All that was left was for Blaine to decide was whether or not he could bear to submit Miss Fabray to a life with a husband who simply couldn’t love her.

He made a decision to pen his reply after his horse ride that morning. He sat in the library for the entire afternoon, the stained glass window hidden away in the corner sending spirals of light dancing along the floor. His eyes bore into the family crest emblazoned upon the paper and his fountain pen hovered but a few centimeters above it, yet every time Blaine thought of something to write, something held him back.

The window. The one he’d shown to Kurt weeks ago. The one that had cast Kurt’s face in every shade of blue, red and yellow as they’d stood by it looking down into the rose garden. Their ‘secret’ window, so to speak, because nobody ever came to the library and sat by that window; nobody ever gave a damn about it but for himself and Kurt. But Blaine really couldn’t understand why the image of Kurt’s face was preventing him from replying to Miss Fabray.

It did not make any sense.

* * *

Mrs Bieste rushed about the kitchen shouting her orders to the kitchen workers. It was hot, as usual, her face flushed from the heat of the stoves and various pots and pans of boiling liquids. Kurt watched from the doorway, just far enough out of the way that he knew Mrs Bieste wouldn’t raise her voice to him for being underfoot. Sam eventually joined him at the entrance of the kitchen, dressed for the evening. They collected the food prepared for the family’s appetizer and began to make their way to the stairs that lead from the kitchen up toward the dining room.

Kurt threw a glance in Sam’s direction, eyeing his vacant expression with a look of concern. He was so far lost in his own troubles that he was barely comprehensive of anything around him besides what his body was managing automatically. Once eventually in the dining room the two of them were met with Ryerson, already situated beside the door the family would enter through, straight-backed and tight-lipped, his professionalism not leaving him for a second. Kurt wanted to say something to Sam, wanted to shake him out of his trance, but before he could, the family came in and were seated, the long evening of good manners and rehearsed conversation beginning.

Kurt barely listened to the talk around the dinner table. His mind was flitting between Sam and Blaine, though his eyes gave nothing away, trained upon the elaborate food he was serving, or on the dining room wall, tracing the intricacies of the wallpaper. Snippets of sentences filtered in; parties, politics, various medical advances, newspaper gossip.

“What I read in the papers this morning rather surprised me, though.” 

“What’s that?”

“King George the Fifth has been accused of bigamy. There’s quite an uproar about whether his wife is legal at all. Certainly the legitimacy of his children has come into question.”

“Surely not?”

“Edward Mylius published the report. French man.”

“Well then he’s making rumors, surely? Only a foreigner would spread such vicious lies.”

“Naturally.”

Blaine remained quiet throughout all of their conversations - whether uninterested or distracted Kurt couldn’t tell - his eyes following his parent’s comments back and forth. Eventually there was a pause between discussions, and Blaine took the opportunity to clear his throat.

“Miss Fabray and I have been corresponding,” Blaine said. His voice was small in the large dining room, yet it seemed to ring in Kurt’s head. There was a long moment of quiet, his parents all but dropping their cutlery and focusing pointedly at Blaine, who shuffled awkwardly. Kurt briefly wondered if his own heartbeat were audible. 

“Of Crawford?” Lady Dalton asked.

“Yes,” Blaine said. “I have been invited to visit.”

“Visit Crawford?”

“Yes, mother. Visit Crawford.” 

“Goodness, I should hardly have expected this. And so soon!”

Kurt twitched at the excitement in Blaine’s mother’s voice. 

“Are you to go alone, or is this a family invitation?”

“Well, mother, your names were not referred to directly in her letter and I shouldn’t wish to impose upon her family the pressure of inviting additional guests at my asking.”

“No, no. Quite right. What reply did you make?” 

Blaine was silent, eyes downcast at his food. “I haven’t yet made a reply.” 

“Well, why ever not? It ought to have been in the post this evening!” 

“How long are you to stay?” Lord Dalton asked.

“Miss Fabray has suggested two weeks.” 

“Two weeks?” Lord Dalton said, his eyebrows raised. “Won’t you be overstaying your welcome?” 

“Nonsense! The Lord and Lady Crawford have invited him for two weeks and he shall stay for two weeks. I implore you to have your reply in the post by morning, Master Anderson. To be married to a Marquess' daughter... that really would be something for you.”

“How strange that you’ve jumped to such a conclusion, mother. I don’t believe I said anything about marriage.”

Lady Dalton threw a side-long glance at the servants, as though she were assessing whether or not they had heard Blaine’s remark, and Kurt felt himself tense slightly under her gaze. He almost breathed a sigh of relief when she turned back to Blaine. “Perhaps not. But it is, after all, the only perceivable outcome after a visit to her family estate. Your reply will be in the post by morning.”

* * *

“Will you be riding tomorrow, milord? It looks as though rain might be setting in for a while.” 

“Since when has that ever stopped me, Kurt?” 

The cheeky smile on Blaine’s face made Kurt blush a little, and he turned away to replace Blaine’s cufflinks in his drawer of valuables. 

“Very true, milord,” he replied, with a smile. 

“It shall be strange, riding the grounds of Crawford instead of Dalton,” Blaine mused as he worked away his bow-tie.

“Will it really be so different?” 

“Certainly. It’ll be nice. Refreshing. But different. To look at Crawford House instead of Dalton Abbey. Though I daresay they’ll have some fine gardens.” 

“Certainly, milord.” 

“And a much bigger house...” Blaine looked at Kurt and smiled a little guiltily, “you shan’t tell my parents that I said that, will you?” 

Kurt chuckled. “No, milord. Your secrets are always safe with me.” 

“I know they are,” Blaine said simply, with an air of confidence, and then, jokingly, “the window in the library is as unnoticed by anybody as it was the day I showed it to you. ‘The Secret Window’, as it were. So you haven’t told anybody about that.”

“No, milord. Of course not,” Kurt said, smiling - perhaps at the memory. “When do you go to Crawford?” 

“I expect my hosts will set the date to be within the following week,” Blaine replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “I imagine it will be quite a rushed affair.” 

“For two weeks?” 

“For two weeks. Unless they renew my invitation whilst I’m there. Kurt-” Blaine pulled the envelope addressed to Miss Fabray out from his desk drawer. He’d penned it after dinner, before Kurt had come up to his room. “Could you ensure that this is ready for the post boy to collect tomorrow morning? I’m quite certain that if I miss him before breakfast tomorrow I shall never hear the end of it.”

Kurt took the letter and Blaine watched the boy’s fingers as they traced the edges of the envelope. His eyebrows were knitted; he looked as though he were debating internally whether or not to say something. “It-” he began, “It won’t quite be the same here at Dalton... without you.”

The note of silence that followed took Blaine’s breath away. Kurt’s entire body seemed to tense, as though he hadn’t meant to say that at all; as though it had simply slipped out. 

“What do you mean, Kurt?” 

“I-I-I- just mean that- I wouldn’t see you... it’s my- it’s my routine. It would be unusual not to see you everyday. It would... I mean to say that I-”

“Would you miss me, Kurt?” 

“No! I mean, I would miss your... your company... you’re- well you-”

“It’s okay to say yes, Kurt. If you would miss me.”

“Well, then I... I suppose... yes. Yes, I would miss you. Milord.”

Kurt looked straight at Blaine then, with a sudden confidence that Blaine had never seen in his eyes before. Something tightened in Blaine’s chest. 

“I would miss you too, Kurt. If I were leaving you, anyway.” 

Kurt’s brow crossed in confusion. 

“Sorry, milord, I don’t understand. I thought you were to go to Crawford?” 

“I am going to Crawford, Kurt. But you don’t think I could very well go without my valet, do you?

Kurt looked as though he were unable to comprehend quite what Blaine was saying. The lack of belief Kurt seemed to have in his own worth to Blaine was as heartbreaking as it was endearing, and it made Blaine’s heart ache. 

He smiled, placing his hand on Kurt’s shoulder, wrapping his fingers loosely around the muscles there. Kurt didn’t flinch away, though the touch was unnecessary, and probably far too intimate for a gentleman to share with his footman. “I could just as easily have one of the footmen at Crawford be my valet for the fortnight, but not seeing you for two weeks, that would just be... well, it would just be wrong.”

What happened next went by so quickly that Blaine was in the middle of it before he knew that he had begun. He sought out the tiny flecks of green in Kurt’s blue eyes as his face drew closer, watching until the colors became hazy and unfocused. Kurt remained still, his eyes open until the tip of Blaine’s nose touched his cheek, after which Blaine’s own eyes closed and he could account for nothing beyond the sound of Kurt’s sharp intake of breath and the feeling of his lips ghosting ever so lightly over Kurt’s feather-soft mouth. 

The younger boy remained still for what seemed like an eternity to Blaine, but Kurt did eventually spring back to life. Blaine felt their lips crush together, sealing their kiss in a forbidden utopia that would last forever and not long enough all at once.

Blaine had no idea how long the two of them stayed pressed together, but when he withdrew, the world appeared altered. Kurt’s cheeks were flush, his eyes sparkling, and Blaine realized for the first time that this was it. This was the feeling he’d been waiting for.

Until Kurt raised his hand to his lips and gasped, backing away from Blaine and staring at him wide-eyed with something akin to fright. And Blaine’s insides twisted with the uncomfortable notion that he’d just done something terribly, terribly wrong.


	10. Chapter 10

Blaine had had no idea that silence could explode the way that it had. It was deafening; it rang louder in his ears than anything he’d ever heard before - and he hastened to cover it. 

“Kurt - oh God, I - I’m sorry! I didn’t... mean to... I mean, I did, I _absolutely_ did. I have been thinking about this for so long - too long. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this... I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have done it, Kurt, just please, please never mention this to anybody!” 

Kurt appeared frozen in place, hand still at his mouth, staring at Blaine as though a thousand things were running through his mind but he hadn’t the ability to voice a single one. “Oh Kurt, _please_ say something.” 

Blaine’s hand was trembling, and his stomach bore an unsettled sickly feeling bought on by nervousness. 

It was unfamiliar to Blaine - the feeling of powerlessness when stood beside a servant. Of course Kurt could walk out of the room and proclaim to everybody what Blaine had done, and at first there would be scandal. But who would believe a footman over the word of an Earl’s son? Blaine would roll his eyes nonchalantly, would appear offended if anybody dared so much as to question him on the subject. Kurt would be fired for spreading lies, Blaine would marry a lady and the entire thing would be swept under the rug; forgotten - by society at least. 

But, no - that wasn’t what had unsettled Blaine. More concerning to him was the idea of Kurt simply walking out; out of the room, out of Dalton Abbey and out of Blaine’s life forever. Kurt had, somehow, introduced Blaine to a side of him that he had never before discovered and was now impossible to ignore. Blaine was not prepared for there to be no more Kurt Hummel. 

Kurt seemed to breathe at last - an achingly long and horribly shaky breath - and his expression, though not altogether relaxed, was less fearful than it had been. 

“Have you really been meaning to do that for a long time?” 

They were not the words Blaine had been expecting of his valet, but, allowing himself the tiniest hint of relief, he happily accepted them. 

“Yes. _Yes_. And I didn’t even realize it until just now. But I realize now that I’ve wanted it - I’ve wanted _you_ \- almost from the first.”

Kurt’s breath was still shaky as he replied. “From when, _exactly_? Tell me when.”

“From... from the moment I caught you playing at my pianoforte. Your skill with music, your _voice_. That, I think, is when I realized that you were different. You were special.”

Blaine was entirely baffled by Kurt’s response. Perhaps, he thought, when Kurt got over the shock he would be far more disgusted by what had happened. Instead, the edge of Kurt’s lips twitched upwards slightly. 

“And would you... would you ever consider doing it again? Kissing me, I mean?” 

“I’d kiss you forever, if you’d let me,” Blaine said without hesitation. 

Suddenly Kurt’s lips were on his again, Blaine’s hands clasping desperately around the other boy’s back, pulling him closer, closer until it was impossible for the two of them to be any closer. Their breathing became quick, heavy, so unnaturally paced and yet, Blaine noticed, so in synch with one another. It was as though their lips were meant to be together, their bodies together - their _souls_ together - regardless of what society said, regardless of what the law said. If the two of them harboring feelings for one another was so damned wrong then how was it possible for it to feel so _right_?

They eventually broke apart, Blaine’s shirt slightly askew from where Kurt’s fingers had grabbed ahold of it. Blaine released him from his grip, his hands trailing from his back to his waist and then eventually clenching beside himself, fists forming as he tried to control the overwhelming sensation of euphoria. Blaine was speechless - what did everything mean? What kind of feelings did Kurt have for him? What were they going to do about it? 

“You...” Blaine cleared his throat. “You don’t seem quite as, um... _repulsed_ as I was expecting.” 

“ _Repulsed_?” Kurt exclaimed. “I’ve wanted to do this for quite a while, too, milord.” 

“Kurt,” Blaine said with a chuckle. “You don’t have to call me _that_. Not in private, anyway, not anymore. Do you remember my first name?” 

Kurt nodded. “Of course I do.” 

“Call me by my name.”

Kurt hesitated, as though, after everything, calling Blaine by his forename was some dirty, forbidden thing. “Blaine...” Kurt whispered finally, and after a few moments his lips curled up into a smile. 

Blaine smiled, too. “What are you thinking about?” 

“I’ve wanted to call you that for so long. I always had to fight with myself that I wouldn’t be the first of us to call the other by name. And I wasn’t.” 

Blaine laughed, his hand coming up to rest against Kurt’s pale cheek. “No, it was me. I’m always the first to make a mistake.”

“Your mistakes usually pay off though,” Kurt said, leaning his forehead against Blaine’s. 

“Kurt...”

“Blaine...”

And the two of them kissed again. 

* * *

Kurt left Blaine’s room a little later than usual, the kisses they’d shared whilst putting away Blaine’s evening wear lasting minutes at a time, elongating their brief moment together. 

Kurt still had Blaine’s letter to Miss Fabray tucked inside his pocket, and, with a great deal of reluctance, he took it to the postbox to stamp and ensure it was ready for the morning post collection. He had half considered not posting the letter at all; why should Blaine need Miss Fabray if he was clearly so interested in Kurt? But of course he hadn’t. Not sending the letter would mark him as unreliable, suspicious - not to mention the fact that Kurt still wasn’t sure that his own senses hadn’t deceived him. He was convinced that he could wake up at any moment, the entire thing a dream. Surely it was the only believable explanation? 

“Good God, Hummel!” Puck’s voice seemed to appear out of nowhere, and Kurt jumped, turning abruptly to the origin of the noise. Kurt’s first notion was that he knew somehow, and he tried his utmost to abandon the guilty look that was no doubt affixed to his face. 

“Tell me you haven’t been with Master Anderson half the evening looking like _that_?”

Kurt’s eyes widened. “Like what?”

Puck came closer to him and pulled at his the back of his jacket where Blaine’s hands had been not a quarter of an hour previous. 

“Your clothing all crumpled. The back of your jacket was folded in on itself; I could see your waistcoat.” 

Kurt’s brow furrowed in mock-confusion and turned to make his way closer to the stairs to the servant’s quarters. “I don’t know how that must have happened. Besides, Puck, I didn’t think you cared much about that sort of thing.”

Puck grabbed the back of Kurt’s jacket, halting his movement abruptly. “Lord Dalton spent more money than you’re like to see in your lifetime on our liveries so that we can uphold their family name. One day I’ll be the butler here, and it’ll be my job to keep up that name, Hummel. You should appreciate what you have and respect the people who provided them for you.” 

Kurt pulled himself away from the grasp and began to ascent the stairs backwards, his eyes still on Puck. 

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” he said, before turning his way up toward his bedroom. 

Sam was already asleep when Kurt entered the room. He noticed yet another pile of abandoned letters and crumpled paper littering the desk the two of them shared, and Kurt resolved to figure out a way to help Sam with his troubles the following day. In the meantime, he got ready and into bed, blew out the single remaining lit candle and fell to sleep, smiling for his own happiness. 

*

For the first time in Kurt’s life, morning did not come fast enough. He awoke constantly throughout the night, each time glancing at the window to be disheartened that it was still nighttime. The moon glowed especially bright, as though it were exerting all of it’s energy to ensure the night would last forever. Kurt was already wide-awake with the sounds of the birds bringing in the dawn and he sped through his morning duties with more haste than was necessary. 

Eventually he found himself finished - a full half and hour before he was to wake Blaine. The result was an agonizingly long wait at the breakfast table, nibbling at his food so as to make it last. 

By the time he could go upstairs to Blaine, a sudden anxiety had settled itself within Kurt, and he caught himself worrying his bottom lip through his teeth. 

What if Blaine had changed his mind? What if he’d realized the stupidity of becoming involved with a servant - worse, a _man_? What if the entire thing were part of Kurt’s restless and addled sleep during the night, and it had all been but a very vivid dream? Or what if - very worst of all - the whole thing had been some terrible joke? A trick Blaine had played on him to get him into trouble? Was it possible for Blaine to be that cruel? 

The thought went round and round in Kurt’s mind as he ascended the stairs that led to Blaine’s suite. No, he thought vehemently. No, Blaine could never be that cruel. 

Blaine answered the door himself as soon as Kurt knocked. It was unprecedented that Blaine should do that - that any gentleman should open the door for a servant - but Kurt thanked him and walked inside the room anyway. Blaine’s lips were on his the instant the door was closed behind him and Kurt’s sigh of relief disappeared into the kiss with a soft and satisfied hum. 

The kiss was gentle, and if it wasn’t the most passionate thing that Kurt had ever done he might have described it as chaste, almost. It was as though neither of them knew what they were doing, both of them following the other’s lead and guessing things, feeling things by instinct. Blaine’s tongue flecked across Kurt’s for the briefest of moments and Kurt gasped, the sensation almost too passionate to bear.

When at last they parted - Kurt’s chest rising and falling heavily - they laughed a little together, Blaine’s cheeks coloring slightly as he touched his own fingers to his reddened lips.

“Isn’t this wrong?” Kurt dared to ask eventually. 

Blaine seemed contemplative for a moment. “Is it wrong for people to care about one another? To kiss one another?” 

“Blaine...” Kurt pressed a hand to Blaine’s soft cheek, running a thumb across his cheekbone to his hairline. Blaine leant into the touch. “We’re not just two people. And we’re not just a gentleman and a servant. We’re two men. This isn’t... this isn’t accepted. It’s so far from it that I daren’t think what anybody would say if they knew.”

Blaine put his hands around Kurt’s waist and tugged him closer. “Nobody will ever know about this. We can keep this a secret forever, can’t we? If you’ll agree to always be my valet then we shall always see one another.”

“You’re to be married.” 

The words silenced Blaine for a moment. His eyes lost their spark, glanced down somewhere beyond Kurt, who felt his heart drop with the reality that Blaine’s promises were little more than idle fantasies for a life that they two of them could never even dream of sharing. 

But Blaine cocked his head back to Kurt and smiled, playfully. 

“No. Not yet, I’m not.” 

And with those five simple syllables, Kurt’s mouth was claimed by Blaine’s and all of their promises were sealed. 

Kurt was laughing when again they parted. 

“You’ll be late for breakfast, _Master Anderson_. We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

* * *

“Blaine.”

His parents were already sat at the breakfast table by the time Blaine arrived, a little later than he ought to have been. 

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” Blaine said, offering no kind of explanation. Kurt had arrived on time, of course. He stood where he usually did, to the side of the room ready to serve if anybody needed him. Breakfast was such a casual affair compared to dinner that Blaine hardily knew why they kept servants in the room at all - but he was glad, now, that Kurt was there. 

Blaine had held back before coming to breakfast, even after Kurt had gone down himself. He’d composed himself in the mirror and waited for the swell of his lips to go down so that when he finally arrived - ten minutes later than he usually did - he could convince his observers that he was every bit the innocent and respectable gentleman they all assumed him to be. 

“It isn’t much like you to be tardy,” his mother said, and though she hadn’t worded it as such, her tone indicated that she required an explanation for his delayed appearance. 

“I was reading.” 

“Always with your head in some book. Kindly take you place so that we can eat,” Blaine’s father said, folding up his newspaper as Blaine hastened to follow his instruction. 

No sooner had Blaine taken his seat when his parents began to help themselves to various slices of toast and egg. Blaine’s appetite seemed to have disappeared entirely. With his eyes hardily focused on what was laid before them on the table, he took a slice of bread with lazy fingers and buttered it slowly. Kurt was just visible in his peripheral vision, and Blaine had to fight the temptation to look at him and give an obscenely obvious smile. 

“Did you send Miss Fabray your reply?” Blaine’s mother asked. 

The feeling that took ahold of Blaine’s insides was as unpleasant as it was unwelcome; his stomach clenched uncomfortably at even the mention of her name. 

“The letter was in this morning’s post,” he assured her with a strained voice. 

“Good. _Good_. Things are back on course at last. In a few short months Miss Fabray and yourself will be married and we can forget about out little hiccup with Miss Berry. 

Blaine raised his eyebrows. “I was unaware that the friendship between Miss Berry and I was considered a ‘hiccup’. 

His mother did not grace him with a response.

*

Blaine left the breakfast table as soon as he could excuse himself. His vision was a little blurred from tiredness; he had spent his entire night thinking over things. Some of his thoughts were obscenely delicious - the taste of Kurt’s lips the, way his back curved inwards a little at the bottom just enough for Blaine to rest his hand there, the thought of Kurt’s hands finally clasped around Blaine in an embrace. Some of his other thoughts were less so appealing; an overwhelming and crushing reminder of reality. Thoughts such as how he could possibly continue a relationship with Kurt when the very notion of it was enough to have them both imprisoned. Like how he was meant to endure his meeting with Miss Fabray - this potential marriage - when he abhorred the very idea of being intimate with anybody besides Kurt. 

Mostly he’d wondered what it was about Kurt that had so changed him - or had he always been this way? Homosexuality was a criminal offense, was abnormal in the eyes of society. So if Blaine was not supposed to feel this way for Kurt then why did he? And, indeed, why was Kurt not entirely repulsed by it? Why did Kurt feel the same way? 

His mind had been torn for most of the night between asking Kurt the following morning if he would mind terribly the two of them pretending that it hadn’t happened so that Blaine could go on leading a normal life, and fantasizing about the places he would most like to plant kisses on Kurt’s body, the ways in which they could keep themselves a secret for the rest of their lives. Blaine kept on thinking of Oscar Wilde - fantastic writer that he was, condemned for his homosexuality - to convince himself that he was not only normal, but that he was in good company.

His body had eventually succumbed to sleep, though the slumber had not lasted long. Naturally, though, fresh air would wake him up more thoroughly, and Blaine had Kurt called up to his room to pick out his riding gear. Any mere excuse to see the boy’s face yet again.

* * *

Sam was sitting on the floor when Kurt came into their bedroom to change clothes for the evening. He was shuffling through various pieces of crumpled paper on the floor and seemed to be arranging them out on their tiny amount of floor space so as to compare them. 

“Are you writing letters?” 

Sam didn’t make a verbal reply. His head seemed to nod - only ever so slightly - in the affirmative, and Kurt rolled his eyes a little, though Sam didn’t notice. He was mumbling to himself, his words barely-there and seemingly nonsensical, and as Kurt unbuttoned his shirt and folded it up on his bed he couldn’t help but feel his heart ache for poor Sam. 

“Aha!” 

Kurt jumped at the sudden noise, and Sam picked up three of the crumpled sheets of paper, held together with tense hands, and walked over to the desk, placing them in front of him and picking up his pen once again to start afresh. 

“What have you found?” Kurt asked, pulling his evening shirt over his pale shoulders and noticing how his skin really was the color of porcelain. He was sure he’d looked a little darker when he’d been working on the farm. 

“The right way to word it. This letter. I think I have it. Perhaps.”

“Sam...” 

But Sam didn’t reply. His pen was already racing across the paper, clearly paying no attention to his badly scripted handwriting. Kurt supposed he’d written so many drafts of the proposal letter by now that he had stopped even trying to put together his elegant scrawl in case it was all for nought. 

Kurt buttoned up his shirt hastily and walked over to Sam, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on the paper that Sam was writing on. Sam stopped, looking up at Kurt with a mixture of annoyance and sadness. 

“Kurt I have to write this letter.” 

“No. You don’t.” 

“Yes! Yes, I do!” 

Kurt sighed and pulled the paper away from Sam, scrunching it up. Sam winced, as though the destruction of the letter he had not yet had the chance to discard of himself was physically painful to him.

“Do you love Louisa, Sam?” 

Sam appeared baffled for a moment, and then furrowed his brows, raising his voice in irritation, “Yes! Of course I do, what do you think I’ve been so pent up about for the past week?”

Kurt shook his head and leaned in closer to Sam. “Do you love Louisa? Really _love_ her?”

“I...” Sam began, before inhaling deeply, letting the stale air of the room fill his lungs and calm him. “Yes, Kurt. I do. Of course I love her.” 

Kurt smiled and nodded encouragingly. 

“Then go to Mr Wood yourself, Sam. Ask him in person. Show him how much Louisa means to you.” 

“I can’t... I can’t do that Kurt, you know that. I’m just-” 

“You’re just scared. Don’t be. I promise you that if you care enough, if you want enough for it to happen, then it will. It _will_ happen.”

“What makes you so certain?” Sam asked, the tiniest hint of a smile on his face. 

“Good things happen to good people. That’s just a fact, Sam,” Kurt said, nudging Sam comfortingly and throwing the dozens of sheets of wasted paper in the basket in the corner of the room. “I am one hundred percent confident that you will get exactly what you deserve when it comes to Louisa because you’re one of the nicest, truest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. These things happen the way that they’re supposed to.” 

Sam chuckled. “‘God works in mysterious ways?’” he quoted, his eyes seeming light up as though Kurt were watching the notion of possibility seep back into Sam’s conscience. “What on Earth’s made you so optimistic all of a sudden?” 

Kurt turned away from Sam, feeling his smile stretch across his face as he pulled on his waistcoat. He could think of no answer, so he made no reply, continuing to smile, his face away from Sam’s, until the question drifted away. 

* * *

_Dear Master Anderson,_

_I am so pleased that you have accepted out invitation to Crawford. We expect your arrival on the 27th August, if you would. Do let us know if this date is at all inconvenient to you. You are more than welcome to bring a valet with you, though naturally if you do not one of our footmen will be assigned to your care._

_We anticipate your arrival keenly._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Miss Lucy Fabray._

Blaine had little to say once the letter arrived, a full three days after his own had been sent in the post. His parents watched him as he folded the letter and placed it back onto the table. 

“Well?” Blaine’s mother asked, rather too enthusiastically. “When are you expected?”

“The twenty-seventh of the month,” Blaine replied without elaboration. 

“Oh a week away. We’ve plenty of time to arrange things then. We shall have Hudson drive you and your valet down to the station. If you catch the night train you’ll be there good and early the following morning and I’m certain they’ll extend to you the use of a motor car and chauffeur - I’ve heard Lord Crawford has two cars you know! You will have to tell us if that is true...”

Blaine let his mother’s talking trail off into the background, and he dared to glance across to Kurt, who was offering him as much sympathy as his typically blank face could allow. 

This was, as far as Blaine was concerned, the beginning of a double life that he would simply have no choice but to live. 

His day continued as usual. He changed into his riding gear, then into afternoon clothes, and finally into evening attire, neither Kurt nor Blaine daring to be the first to mention the visit to Crawford. 

It was after dinner, when Blaine had retired early with a complaint of head ache, that he eventually broached the topic with Kurt. 

“Are you... excited?” 

Kurt smiled, looking up at Blaine as he assorted Blaine’s cufflinks correctly. “It will be an experience. I am mostly just pleased that I shall be going with you.”

Blaine couldn’t help but be touched by the compliment, and he reached out to clasp Kurt’s hand in his own. He held it there, his thumb caressing the back of his pale hand softly. 

“But if this entire visit is to the purpose of making Miss Fabray my fiance, then what is to become of us, Kurt?”

Kurt’s hand stilled in Blaine’s, and his eyes seemed full of a kind of sadness all of a sudden. 

“You don’t believe that we can be together?” 

“I honestly don’t know what to think, Kurt. We are so good with our secrets and we both know that my feelings for you can never be replaced by any misguided sense that I am supposed to care for Miss Fabray.”

Kurt placed his second hand on top of Blaine’s and his own. The movement was comforting, reassuring, and all at once the fact that Kurt was a servant and the fact that he was male seemed entirely irrelevant. They were but two people in a difficult situation, holding one another, promising one another that things would be okay. 

“Blaine,” Kurt said, and Blaine moved in closer so as not to miss a single word, “there are so many standards that you have to meet, so many people that you have to please. It’s as thought you’re on a pedestal with the weight of everything on your shoulders. If you make a single mistake, if you make a mess of your situation in front of all these people then people will begin to suspect things about you, spread rumors and lies and hatred, until your family name is little more than a joke to your peers.” 

Blaine winced at the harsh truth - the fact that everything he did and did not do reflected back on Blaine, his parents and the name and estate that had been passed down to him by ancestors. 

“But, Blaine, I can assure you that there’s not a single person in the world, upper class or otherwise, who is what they say they are. The scandals, the rumors. They’re not so few and far between as you would imagine. And they’re just the ones who get caught.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m suggesting that marriage to Miss Fabray would be the perfect coverup for a relationship that we can keep so secret that nobody will ever suspect a thing. I’m saying that we could do this Blaine. We could do this for the rest of our lives if we wanted. And nobody need suspect you of anything.”

The smile that broke out on Blaine’s face was nothing short of spectacular. He freed his hand from Kurt’s grasp and used it to pull Kurt’s face into his, sliding his lips into place effortlessly. 

They eventually broke apart with giggles of happiness, the two of them almost giddy with the excitement of a future that could work; that _would_ work, because they wanted it to, _needed it to_. 

Blaine dressed for bed, his mind whirring with all of the ways their future could pan out. It was a given that Kurt would formally become valet, rather than footman-come-valet, when Blaine was the master of the house. He’d become butler, maybe, when Ryerson eventually retired or passed away. The children that Blaine had would look up to Kurt, the almost fatherly staff member that had been there since before their births. 

The two of them would live well into the 1960’s - seventy years of age, the both of them - with King Edward VIII about to leave the royal throne to a son of his. Dalton Abbey would be the epitome of class, the house through which all worthy society must pass. Blaine’s wife would be entirely oblivious to Blaine’s affairs, as any good wife should be - the two of them would host parties, would hold ceremonies, would find their children good marriages, all in exactly the same way that Blaine’s own parents had. The world would go by and none of it would matter so long as Kurt and Blaine could live as happily as two men ever could away from the eyes of society.

Blaine allowed the thought to carry him to his bed after Kurt had kissed him and bid him goodnight, and his dreams were as happy and delightful as ever they could be. 

\------------------------  
 _End of Part One_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of Dalton Abbey

_Father,_

_I’ve some news! You might remember that I mentioned Lord and Lady Crawford attending the ball at Dalton last month; they came with their youngest daughter, Miss Fabray. Since then, Master Anderson has been invited to visit Crawford House. He sets off on Monday morning and plans to stay the fortnight._

_And what might I be doing for the next two weeks, you ask? Would you believe me if I told you I’ve been invited along as Master Anderson’s valet? Yes! That is my news! For two weeks I drop my duties as footman of Dalton Abbey and exclusively become valet to the future Earl of Dalton._

_I’m excited! Nervous too, of course. I know I’ve been here for a while now, but I still feel as though I’ve only just found my feet and become used to the place. To move to another house so soon... it’s strange. But not at all unwelcome. Crawford House will be bigger even than Dalton - people keep telling me as much, though I’m still finding it hard to believe a house could be any bigger - and they’ll have twice as many staff members. Miss Lopez said that Lord Crawford was as likely to invite me to luncheon with his family as any of his servants are to befriend me. She might be right, of course, but I’d like to imagine they offer the same kind of hospitality we offered to Lord Lima’s valet and Miss Berry’s lady’s maid when they came to stay. Only time will tell, I suppose._

_Might I just take a moment to express how astounded I am that you’ve hired help on the farm? Considering all the effort that went into finding me a job, packing me up into a box and shipping me away to a perfect set of strangers, I would have thought you’d at least pretend to look after the farm alone! I jest, of course. But I have to ask; why do you need the extra hands? I know you said you were fine - and you’ve said it in every letter I’ve received from you since I came to work here - but I want you to speak to me honestly. You know I would come straight back home regardless of anything if you ever needed me, don’t you?_

_Alas, I should go. I have so many things to be getting on with in the morning, and I’ve spent the last five minutes watching the wax melt from the candlestick on the desk. Yes, yes, I know. ‘Don’t stare at the flame too long lest it burn your soul’. God bless mama and her infinite wisdom. Perhaps working in service during her youth started to eat away at her own soul before she met you? I don’t think that will ever happen to me. Not here. Not serving the Anderson family. Certainly not writing by candlelight - I trust it more than the electricity they have upstairs..._

_All my love,_

_Kurt._

*

The day of Kurt and Blaine’s departure from Dalton had been a long and strenuous one. Kurt had lost count of the number of times he’d checked and double-checked the things he’d packed into Blaine’s trunk and the amount of times he had folded and refolded the clothes according to Puck’s very exact and unrelenting instructions. His own trunk consisted of the barest of requirements - his liveries and night clothes being the only real things he’d needed to be sure he had - and he’d had everything packed before breakfast. Arranging for the departure of an Earl’s son was apparently more complex. Kurt’s path had crossed with Blaine’s numerous times throughout the day, Lady Dalton unnecessarily fretting with ideas of missing buttons, muddied riding clothes or unmatched cufflinks, and every time the two of them met again Blaine had rolled his eyes and smiled apologetically at Kurt. It seemed it wasn’t in Blaine’s nature to fuss over small, social details. Kurt felt almost positive that he could send Blaine to evening dinner in a mix of riding pants and sleepwear and Blaine would neither care nor notice. Kurt, on the other hand, had taken such care and precision in picking out what Blaine ought to take with him to Crawford House that it wounded him a little every time Blaine’s mother came back to fuss. 

“I’m sorry,” Blaine had whispered in a fleeting moment they’d had together whilst Lady Dalton was out of the dressing room in search of her lady’s maid. “She’s not usually like this at all.” 

Kurt had smiled and nodded, choosing not to say anything as he brushed down Blaine’s dinner jacket. What Blaine had likely meant to say was that his mother was putting in an obscene amount of effort in the hope that Blaine would win over Miss Fabray and her parent’s hearts so that the two of them could eventually be married. Kurt, however, had read it almost as an insult; that Lady Dalton either did not like him or did not trust his judgment. Of the time he had been away from Blaine and his mother, Kurt had spent the majority persuading himself that he was reading far too much into the interaction because of some nagging and guilty conscience in the back of his mind: _she knows, everybody knows._ But it wasn’t possible for anybody to know. Not when the two of them had been so careful. 

The day eventually came to its end, the sun setting over the gardens of Dalton earlier than usual, draining the blood-red and copper-orange colours from the grounds to be replaced by a misty, blue-white chill. Kurt had helped load the motorcar with luggage by the light of the electric lamps hung either side of the door on the front of the house. In the moon’s glow, the house looked like something from a gothic novel, shrouded in patches of darkness set off by light, all the corners and ledges of the building casting shadows where the light bounced and flickered away from them. The house’s front door creaked upon opening, sending shivers down Kurt’s spine as he waited by the motorcar for Blaine to make his way over. 

When he and his parents arrived at the car, Blaine offered his mother a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll write you when I arrive there safely,” he assured her, and she nodded, her lips pursed. 

“Yes, yes. You must give Lord and Lady Crawford our gratitude for inviting you to stay with them for so long. And remember that you can invite Miss Fabray back here with you on your return.” 

To Kurt, her tone indicated less of a reminder and more of a warning. Blaine simply nodded his agreement, though whether he had any intention of bringing Miss Fabray back to Dalton Kurt couldn’t tell. Lord Dalton, remaining as quiet as ever, made a swift goodbye to Blaine with a shake of his hand before backing away from the motorcar and allowing Blaine to get in and take his seat. Kurt climbed into the car after Blaine, and Hudson closed the door behind the two of them before making his way toward the front of the car. 

Blaine made a hand gesture that seemed something of a half-hearted wave towards his parents as the motorcar hummed into life, and as the vehicle drove slowly away from the house his parent’s figures grew smaller and smaller until they disappeared entirely into the dark of the night. It was then that Blaine let out a low and contented chuckle.

“I needn’t see that place for another two weeks,” he said with a grin he was barely able to keep control of. “Can you believe that, Kurt?” 

“You’re looking forward to your time at Crawford, milord?” it was Hudson who replied, quickly and sharply reminding Blaine that the two of them were not alone. His smile diminished slightly, and he looked toward the chauffeur whose eyes were trained on the road. 

“Of course, Hudson. It ought to be something of an adventure.” 

“If I lived in a house like Dalton Abbey, milord, I think I’d see every day as an adventure.” 

Kurt smiled sympathetically, enjoying the simple innocence of Hudson’s words, and the way in which Blaine was so accepting and understanding of him. 

“But you do live in Dalton Abbey, Hudson. And I think your life is far more adventurous than mine.” 

“Perhaps you’re right, milord,” the chauffeur replied. Kurt had noticed that as soon as it was apparent that Blaine would not be marrying Miss Berry, Hudson had taken to liking Blaine again, as he always had. The chauffeur had rarely mentioned the lady since she had left, and though Kurt had never been sure whether that was because Hudson had simply forgotten about her, or because Ryerson had warned him not to speak of her again, he would have been willing to bet on the latter.

Their car trundled along through the countryside on the outskirts of Dalton for longer than Kurt could keep track of on the way to the train station. Blaine seemed to want to speak to Kurt, turning to him every so often on an intake of breath and looking at him for a while with his lips parted. Words never came forth - and the torn look on Blaine’s face led Kurt to believe that they never formed fully in his mind either. The journey was a quiet one, awkward enough surely for even Hudson to detect, though he did nothing to break the silence much beyond pointing out the gradual change in the weather over time. Occasionally Blaine reached out to run a finger along Kurt’s own hand where it lay between the two of them on the seat. Every time he did it, Kurt’s hand jerked a little, as though reacting to a static shock and then he relaxed into the brief touch, blushing faintly and looking in Hudson’s direction to ensure he wasn’t looking. 

Finally the train station came into sight, and Hudson pulled the motorcar as close to the footbridge that connected the road to the station as possible. Hudson let Blaine out of the motorcar first, and Kurt followed, breathing in the scent of frost that lingered on the night air. He pulled his coat tighter around himself in order to keep out the cold breeze.

“I hope it’ll be warmer on the train,” Blaine said, pulling leather gloves from his pocket and covering his hands with them. 

“I’m sure it will be, milord,” Hudson said. “All those fires and people.” 

As Hudson turned to retrieve their luggage from the car Blaine smiled at Kurt. “Perhaps you could keep me warm on the train,” Blaine whispered with a wink, quickly and inconspicuously running his gloved hand along Kurt’s bare one. Kurt felt himself blush, looking around to see if anybody else nearby the station had noticed anything. There was no one around but the three of them, and Kurt sighed, turning back to face Blaine with his eyebrows raised but returning his smile. For a moment, the two of them stood quite still, Kurt watching as his slow and steady breath danced in the cold air with Blaine’s until Hudson eventually rejoined them, trunks in hand.

“I’ll take your things to the train, milord,” he said to Blaine, placing Kurt’s trunk down on the ground beside Kurt and holding Blaine’s up above his shoulder. 

“Thank you, Hudson,” he said, without taking his eyes from Kurt’s face. “Shall we, Hummel?” 

Kurt raised his eyebrows before picking up his trunk. “Certainly, milord,” he said, and the two of them followed a few steps behind Hudson, walking a quick pace across the footbridge and down the stairs onto the platform. The conductor issued them both with their tickets and wished them - though largely in Blaine’s direction - a pleasant journey. 

“Thank you. My valet here will be seeing to me this evening and tomorrow morning,” Blaine told the conductor, who gave Kurt a single nod of recognition. “Go and see to your room, and then come to me within a half hour or so,” Blaine said to Kurt. 

“Yes, milord,” Kurt replied, making his way to the third class area of the train. Behind him he heard Blaine thank Hudson for his help and say goodbye, until he disappeared into first class and Kurt boarded in third. 

Though Kurt knew that the first class compartment would dazzle in comparison to his own surroundings he did not find himself at all uncomfortable. The train was not busy, and he managed to find a chair to himself in which he would be able to sleep quite comfortably. He set his trunk down in the storage compartment, ensuring that the pristine lettering ‘K.H.’ was easily visible from where it sat. The trunk had been his father’s gift to him for his leaving, and it had likely cost more than he ought to have paid, but it was comforting to know that a piece of his father was with him. 

The train set off after another five minutes, and once thirty minutes had passed, Kurt began to make his way through the train toward Blaine’s compartment, passing through second class and then into first. The difference between Kurt’s own carriage and Blaine’s was immense - each person in first class had their own separate carriage with sliding doors and shutters at each window - most of which were already closed. The train conductor motioned Kurt over to Blaine’s compartment, and Kurt thanked him and knocked on the door. Blaine opened moments later, an undeniably beautiful smile lighting up his features at the sight of Kurt. 

“Shall I come in, milord?” 

Blaine rolled his eyes, as though Kurt’s attempt to be discreet was ridiculous, and he stepped back to allow Kurt room. Blaine’s shutters were already drawn and as soon as Blaine closed the door he spun around, caught Kurt in an embrace and pressed their lips together. 

Kurt moaned into the kiss, thankful that it was muffled by the low rumble of the train’s engine and hopefully not loud enough for anybody to hear. Blaine placed one of his hands on Kurt’s waist, pulling him closer, and his other on Kurt’s cheek, fingers running through the short, fluffy hair at the nape of Kurt’s neck. It was too easy to stay as they were, engrossed in each other and needing nobody and nothing else, yet somewhere in the lust that could so easily consume Kurt there remained that niggling voice, and he soon pulled away. 

“What’s wrong?” Blaine asked, his eyes dilated and his lips swollen. Kurt wondered if it was possible for Blaine - or any person, really - to be any more attractive. 

“We should get you ready for bed,” Kurt said. “You oughtn’t be tired when you meet Miss Fabray in the morning.”

Blaine made something between a disgruntled groan and a laugh, shaking his head and moving back in closer to Kurt. “Don’t be silly. You know I honestly couldn’t care less about that, don’t you?” 

Kurt let his lips be pressed into Blaine’s again, closing his eyes and feeling the warmth of Blaine’s breath on his skin. 

“Mmm - no, Blaine,” he said eventually, pulling himself away once more and looking at anything beside Blaine’s eyes. “I can’t stay here for too long. I have to get you ready and then leave.” 

“Don’t leave.” 

Blaine’s tone of voice was pleading, and Kurt looked back at Blaine’s face, his eyes wide. 

“I have to.” 

“No. You could stay. Come on; nobody knows who we are here. You could stay with me all night and nobody would suspect a thing.” 

“Nobody knows who I am here, Blaine, but I’ll be very surprised if there’s a single person on this train who doesn’t know the Earl of Dalton’s son.”

“They wouldn’t say anything, though,” Blaine protested, resting his hand on Kurt’s forearm. Kurt unbuttoned the cuff of Blaine’s shirt. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so certain. The train conductor saw me coming in - I think he’d be a little suspicious if he didn’t see me coming back out.”

“But what do you think he would say, anyway, if that were the case?” 

Kurt laughed at that, though the sound was humorless. He pulled Blaine’s other arm up toward him, to unbutton the other side. 

“Well I don’t suppose he’d leave it at ‘oh, how terribly unusual for a valet to spend the night with his master’,” Kurt began to undo the buttons at the front of Blaine’s shirt. “You are still aware of the illicit nature of us, aren’t you Blaine?” he asked, popping open the final button on the other man’s shirt and pushing it away from his shoulders to reveal the close-fitted white vest that lay underneath. 

Blaine laughed. “I’m aware, thank you. I just don’t think you ought to worry so much. Nobody will find us out. Not here, where nobody is expecting you to be anywhere.” As Kurt pulled away Blaine’s braces, detaching them from his trousers, Blaine pulled Kurt closer toward him, his eyes filled with longing. “Please, Kurt. I could explain it away so easily. You're my valet,” he added with a laugh. “You have to do what I tell you.”

A voice in the back of Kurt’s mind told him that Blaine had meant what he said as a joke, yet his wording had struck a chord. 

“I’m sorry, milord. I can’t stay with you tonight.” 

“‘Milord’? Whatever happened to ‘Blaine’?” Kurt picked up Blaine’s night shirt and helped Blaine into it without another word. “What did I say, Kurt?” Kurt made no reply. “Please say something.” 

“Goodnight,” Kurt said finally, leaving Blaine’s compartment and closing the door tightly behind him. The train conductor was stood where he had been before, nodding his recognition as Kurt left first class to return to his place in third. 

“Thank you. I’ll be back in the morning,” Kurt said. 

When Kurt eventually found his way back to third class he sank down into the soft blue seat with a sigh and rested his head against the cold window. He could see little into the darkness outside beside raindrops that had started to collect on the glass and the succession of tall trees speeding by outside that each in turn drowned out the moonlight. 

It was the way Blaine had called him his servant. He hadn’t said it in a malicious or derogatory way at all; it was merely a fact that he’d tried to make light of. But the fact remained. Kurt was but a mere servant, and it made no sense for Blaine to be interested in him much beyond his work for him. A romantic connection between the two of them was not merely frowned upon but illegal. Any kind of revelation of their secret would mean the ruin of Kurt and everything he had already worked for. Blaine would get off more lightly - perhaps be rushed into a marriage that was already imminent and sent away to America until the rumours had died down entirely. As much as Kurt would have liked to deny it there was little that could be done to get around that fact that he two of them could never be on equal footing, and highlighting the point - even just for the sake of a joke - almost made Kurt physically ache. 

*

Kurt was woken early and suddenly the following morning at the sound of the train passing closely to another, the wind turbulence making a loud gushing sound that startled Kurt out of a very shallow sleep. It had stopped raining outside by the look of it, though it was still dark. A faint light ran through the carriage and it took a few moments for Kurt’s eyes to adjust. When they did, he noticed the people he was sharing the carriage with. Surrounding him was every example of the lower class: a man snoring softly a few seats away whose hands were black and coarse - probably a factory worker; a young family whose two sleeping children wore grubby clothing that had likely been passed down to each young child as an older one grew out of it. By comparison, Kurt’s clothing seemed crisp and clean. Polished. Privileged. And yet he was among them, the poor country boy-turned-footman. 

He was somewhat afraid to go back to Blaine’s carriage, worried that walking out on him so early the previous night would get him into trouble. Blaine, however, said nothing. He smiled when Kurt entered, as he usually did, and moved - albeit more tentatively - in to kiss him as soon as the door was closed behind them. 

“I’m suddenly quite nervous,” Blaine said with a laugh after he was dressed, running his hand along his shirt sleeve to smooth it out. 

“Why do you say that?” 

“I don’t feel quite prepared enough to meet them all. I don’t feel quite prepared enough to leave you to fend for yourself among a new group of servants while I eat dinner without seeing your marvelous face.” 

Kurt laughed, secretly cherishing the words. “You worry about yourself, Blaine. I’m quite used to ‘fending for myself’.” 

Blaine smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Kurt, if you thought I was not worrying about myself then I’m afraid you think far too highly of me. Your absence at dinner will be a loss I’m unable to manage. You make my day just that extra bit brighter whenever I see you.” 

“You flatter me,” Kurt replied, before opening the door to Blaine’s compartment. “I’ll see you again once we alight the train, milord.” 

Blaine’s grin seemed to hide nothing, but the train conductor appeared not to notice, dark circles beginning to form underneath his eyes. 

*

It was an Irish chauffeur who saw them off the train and ushered them into the motorcar. 

“Flanagan,” he said by way of introduction as he started the engine. “I’m Flanagan. If you ever need a car into Crawford you can come to me.” 

“Thank you, Flanagan. It’s good to meet you. Tell me, is it true the Fabray family has two motorcars?” 

The chauffeur laughed. “Everybody who comes to visit, the first question they ask it’s always ‘do the Crawford’s have two cars?’ Of course it’s true, milord. The Stanley Steam Car, that’s for pleasure trips around the town. Beautiful car, imported from America, runs like a dream. And then there’s this one, the Ford, nice and formal. But why people are surprised that the Crawford family has two motorcars, I don’t know. I should expect there are richer folk than us who’ve got plenty more.” 

Flanagan continued to chatter on, flitting from subject to subject seemingly whenever the fancy took him. He pointed out local landmarks, talked about Crawford House with a pride and dedication that impressed even Kurt. Blaine seemed to lean forward slightly throughout the journey, listening closely to every word, apparently devouring every bit of information that he could. Kurt watched the two of them, chipping in when asked for his opinion but mostly staring with a wide-eyed amusement. 

Their journey took well over an hour until at last, Crawford House came into view from the village. Even from their distance, the place looked far bigger than Dalton Abbey, and Kurt could just make out some of the features; the windows, the vines running up the side of the walls. The morning’s dainty sunrise shone down onto the house, covering it in an orange-gold glow that made it look simply spectacular.

“That’s Crawford House, there, milord,” Flanagan pointed out to them. For once during the entire journey, the chauffeur seemed to have little to say. He simply uttered, “quite a sight, isn’t it?” 

Kurt looked toward Blaine, to see his reaction. “It is...” Blaine said, “quite a sight.” 

Their drive to the house, even from the village where it was visible, was long. The journey stretched on for a further fifteen minutes, the road winding up to the house seeming to pass an endless expanse of forest. The house disappeared behind the tallest of hedges, all neatly and precisely clipped, luscious and green despite the onset of winter. 

When the house eventually came into view again Kurt noticed that the large and extravagant driveway, decorated with rose bushes aplenty, ran alongside a large, private lake that he guessed the gentlemen used for fishing. 

The family, the butler and several footmen stood outside on the driveway waiting to greet them as they pulled up in front of the porch. Flanagan opened the door for Blaine, and he shot one quick smile at Kurt before stepping out of the car.

***

“Master Anderson, how lovely it is to see you again,” Lady Crawford greeted, stepping toward Blaine with her hand outstretched. 

“Lady Crawford,” Blaine said in return, taking the lady’s hand in his own. “And Lord Crawford, how do you do?” 

“Well, thank you,” Lord Crawford said when Blaine turned to shake his hand. 

Blaine turned toward the butler at the sound of Kurt and Flanagan unloading the luggage from the car. “This is my valet, Hummel,” Blaine said as Kurt drew closer. 

“Yes, thank you, Master Anderson,” the butler replied, motioning for Kurt to stand in line with his fellow men. Blaine fought the urge to smile in Kurt’s direction, turning back to see Miss Fabray who stood beside her mother, dressed simply in a plain white dress, orange trim marking out the empire waistline.

“Master Anderson, it’s lovely to see you again,” she said as he approached her. Though she looked lovely as ever, her eyes gave the impression that she was tired, faint circles underlining them. Blaine made his greeting and smiled briefly, quickly looking away from her face as though to pretend he’d not noticed. “Shall we go in for breakfast?” she asked. “I’m sure your journey was a long one.” 

“What a good idea,” Lady Crawford chimed in, beckoning for Blaine to follow her, “yes, do come in, Master Anderson. We decided to have breakfast a little later today so that you might join us.”

“That’s very kind of you, my Lady, thank you,” Blaine said, making his way in through the entrance of the house and throwing another glance in Kurt’s direction before he disappeared out of sight completely. 

The foyer of Crawford House featured a high ceiling, from which an ornate and overly impressive chandelier hung. Upon closer inspection, Blaine noticed that the ceiling had been intricately painted - likely by some famous artist of the seventeenth or eighteenth century. Lady Crawford walked the four of them through the house in quiet; the only sounds were the echoing of footsteps across the floor and the ticking of a large grandfather clock that took pride of place atop the first flight of stairs directly across from the grand entrance. The breakfast room - separate, presumably, to a much larger dining room - was a far more informal affair. It seemed light and airy in comparison with the grand hall. Lady Crawford gestured to Blaine’s seat and the rest of the family took their own. 

“I hope you don’t mind this not being more formal,” Lady Crawford said with a polite smile. “We’ve laid on something far more grand for tonight, of course, but with your arrival being so early this morning we thought we would introduce you to our morning room.” 

“Not at all, my Lady. It’s really quite generous enough of you to have waited for my arrival before you ate your breakfast.”

“Your journey was pleasant, I hope?” 

“It was, thank you.”

“I must say I’ve never travelled overnight by train. I don’t think I should like to.” 

“It isn’t something that vexes me a great deal, my Lady.” 

Miss Fabray was sat beside Blaine, and from the corner of his eye, he could see her watching the back and forth exchange between himself and Lady Crawford. She was sat on the edge of her seat, as though eager for a silence into which she could speak out. Her fork lay idly in her hand, though she was yet to put any food onto her plate. 

“So, Master Anderson,” she said at last, her lips twisting up into a smirk the instant the words left her lips. “What do you think?” She gestured around the room, by which Blaine knew she meant the house. 

“It’s... impressive,” Blaine said in reply, looking toward Lord and Lady Crawford to see if either of them would say something about the house that would require Blaine to merely look impressed, as opposed to saying anything. They remained quiet, Lord Crawford seemingly lost to the conversation taking place, and Lady Crawford seemingly urging Blaine to go on with his compliments. “The painted ceiling in the grand hall is exquisite.” 

“Eighteenth century,” Miss Fabray noted. “I can never recall the artist’s name. It is rather beautiful though, as is the rest of the house, I’m sure you’ll notice.” 

Blaine smiled, though he said nothing in reply. 

“And you’ve one of the best rooms in the house for your stay. You’ve a lovely view of the lake. I will show you there when you’ve finished breakfast.”

*

Miss Fabray led him up the grand staircase, Blaine admiring the hundreds of well-kept family portraits lining the walls as he went, until eventually the stairs branched off, and Miss Fabray led them right, up yet more stairs and down various corridors. The urge to explore the house would be overwhelming for Blaine over the fortnight, and he secretly hoped their encounter that morning would be concluded with an invitation to search the house at his leisure, though he imagined that Lord Crawford would be somewhat restrictive as to where Blaine could make himself comfortable and where he should keep his nose out. 

Blaine followed Miss Fabray down a long corridor on the third floor and wondered to himself how he would ever manage to make his way to and from his room without help. Eventually she came to a door right at the end of the corridor, and she pushed her way through it, beckoning for Blaine to follow her. 

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, as lovely - or possibly even lovelier - than his own bedroom at Dalton, though he would never let on as much. The room was decorated an olive green color, the dark oak furniture impossibly big and yet still leaving enough floor space in the room to walk leisurely - or dance, even, Blaine smiled to himself as he recalled the memory of he and Kurt dancing the night before the ball at which he met Miss Fabray. 

The window reached from floor to ceiling, and looked out across the gardens of Crawford. The small village they’d passed on the way was just visible on the horizon, and there was indeed a lake covering an extensive part of the grounds outside. The view was idyllic; far more beautiful than Blaine would have expected, even considering the Crawfords’ social standing and wealth. He had not a word to say. 

“Quite lovely, isn’t it?” she murmured, and Blaine suddenly realised how close she was standing beside him. He moved away, pretending to browse the rest of the room in a direction that led him close to the door through which the two of them had just entered. “When I was a little girl I used to want a window view like this one from my own bedroom. Alas, the master bedrooms are on a wing of the house that outlooks the gardens around the back.” 

“You could always take a bedroom on this side of the house now that you’re older. I don’t suppose anybody in your family would mind a great deal,” Blaine said, running his fingers along the antique chest of drawers by the doorway. 

“I’m afraid my family _would_ mind a great deal. Don’t you know all sorts of bad things happen when one doesn’t behave in a traditional manner?”

Blaine looked up at Miss Fabray, who had turned to face him. She tried to smile politely, but found herself stifling a yawn behind her hand. 

“Are you alright, Miss Fabray?” 

“You know, we should just call one another Blaine and Lucy from now on, don’t you think so?” 

Blaine dismissed her sentence entirely. “Are you quite well? You do seem tired.” 

“I’ve not been feeling quite myself of late, but it’s nothing to worry yourself with, Blaine,” she said, waving off his concern with a small chuckle. “You know, I might even let you call me ‘Quinn’ if you’re very nice to me...” 

“Quinn?” 

“My middle name. So much more interesting, don’t you think?” 

Blaine opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came to mind. It was difficult to think of her as anything other than Miss Fabray, the beautiful, and somewhat curious, but otherwise uninteresting girl his parents wanted him to marry. His thoughts were less on calling her by endearing nicknames as they were on finding the words to tell her he could not marry her. And then the words to tell his parents. 

Miss Fabray yawned again, turning her face away as much as she could, as though her doing so would prevent Blaine from noticing. 

“You’re tired, Miss Fabray, you ought to rest,” Blaine said. “Allow me to call for somebody.” 

“No, no! Blaine, I’m quite alright. You’ll forgive me if I cut our tour short for today? I do feel a little indisposed but I’m sure a lie-down will be quite all I need to recover.” 

“Of course not,” Blaine said, stepping aside for Miss Fabray to pass him out of the room. “Are you certain you’ll be okay?” 

“Quite alright, thank you. Make use of our library or gardens in my absence, why don’t you?” she said as she walked along the corridor until she disappeared out of sight.

 

***

There was a kind of quiet in the servants’ hall at Crawford, one that Kurt found somewhat eerie, as though the tiniest utterance from him might be heard some miles away. It was probably more to do with the fact that the house was bigger and the ever bustling kitchen was situated much further away from the hall than it was at Dalton. Nevertheless, Kurt found himself making an effort to breathe in and out soundlessly as he waited for the butler, Mr Goolsby, to finish at the family’s breakfast. 

“Must be like taking a holiday,” a male voice said on entering the room. Kurt looked up from the table to see that a young footman had joined him in the hall. “Smythe. Sebastian Smythe,” the man said as he placed a cigarette between his lips and struck up a match. With his first inhale of smoke he looked Kurt up and down, before puffing smoke into his direction and chuckling darkly. “S’alright for some.” 

“Oh leave him alone, Smythe,” a young girl said as she entered the room, a plate of food in hand. A kitchen maid, by the look of her uniform. “He’s done better than you have, to be promoted to valet so young. I’m Miss Rose, by the way. I was told you were expecting this?” At Kurt’s nod, she placed the plate in front of him on the table, smiling sweetly as she did so. 

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Kurt said, returning her smile and leaving her blushing. “But I must confess to being only half valet. When I’m at Dalton Abbey I work as first footman, too.” 

“Still, you should pay absolutely no attention to whatever Smythe might have to say. He’s second to our own first footman, Mr Clarington. And as you can tell, he’s none too pleased about it.” 

“Miss Rose, why don’t you get back to work and leave the men to talk seriously, hmm?” 

Kurt was about to object in the maid’s defense, but she only giggled as she scuttled out of the room, muttering something on her way. 

The hall fell back into its quiet again, save for the careful sound of clinking cutlery and the exaggerated inhale and exhale of Smythe’s breathing. Kurt wondered nervously whether the footman would speak to him, and for how long the uncomfortable silence was to be maintained. He let his eyes survey the other boy - possibly a year or two older than himself, with a kind of self-assured confidence fitting of a man twice his age and far more socially above him. He was tall, his back ramrod straight even though he was out of sight of the family he served, and he seemed to savor every inhale of his cigarette, as though unconvinced that he would ever have time for another.

“So,” Smythe said finally. Kurt didn’t know whether to be relieved or yet more nervous. “First footman. How did you manage that one?” 

Kurt swallowed down a piece of toast, resting his knife and fork against the side of his plate and reaching for his glass of water in an attempt at a more relaxed and confident stature. “Lord Dalton’s valet died. They promoted some of the staff and hired me as first footman.” 

“His valet _died_ , did he? Is that all it takes?” Smythe said, grinning in a way that made Kurt uncomfortable. He took a swig of water from his glass for an excuse not to provide Smythe with a comment. “First footman is quite a feat. For somebody like yourself.” 

“Somebody like myself-?”

“Heard you were a farm boy.” 

Kurt placed his glass of water back down on the table and locked eyes with the footman. A beat of silence passed before Kurt was able to respond. “How did you hear that?” 

“Word travels. I think it was our own Miss Lucy-Q who told me. Heard it from your Master Anderson’s parents, I expect.” 

Kurt tried to ignore the improper use of Miss Fabray’s name, picking up his cutlery once again and staring at his food, suddenly having lost his appetite. “And does it matter?” Kurt asked, as casually as possible. “Does it matter that I grew up on a farm, so long as I can do the job for which I was hired?”

“That depends on whether you are any good, I suppose, doesn’t it?”

A deep-throated cough cut short the chuckling at the end of Smythe’s words, and Kurt looked toward the entryway of the servant’s hall to see that Mr Goolsby had appeared at last. The butler’s arrival seemed to have shocked Smythe, who backed away from Kurt and remained silent. 

“Are you ready to be shown around Crawford House, Hummel?” 

“Yes, thank you, Mr Goolsby,” Kurt replied, setting down his cutlery and vacating his seat, keeping the other footman in his peripheral vision but never looking at him directly. 

“Good. We oughtn’t be late, and I believe Master Anderson will want you in his room that he might change for lunch in just a few short hours,” Mr Goolsby said as he spun on his heel and exited the servant’s hall. “Come along!”


End file.
